


A Rose By Any Other Name

by sparrowlina



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-11
Updated: 2018-08-11
Packaged: 2019-06-25 17:20:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 43,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15645381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparrowlina/pseuds/sparrowlina
Summary: Sherlock has finally hit a case that he can't solve. It'll take the aid of an out of town DI to help him figure out this string of murders that seem to have no connection. This DI gives him a flash from his past he wasn't expecting, ultimately showing him how to connect the dots and make it through one of his hardest cases yet. [Written prior to Series 4 release]





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Please enjoy the first mystery that I tried to write! I hope you enjoy! Leave a comment or shoot me a message :)
> 
> With Love,  
> sparrowlina

_I got all I need when I got you and I. I look around me and see a sweet life…_

The alarm rang right through the small flat which was supposed to signal its owner to wake up and start her day. Coming out of the bathroom with a toothbrush hanging out of her mouth, the already awake tenant silenced her phone and flicked through the various notifications that popped up on her screen. Most of the emails were junk from her office that she didn’t have time for at that particular moment. The one text she needed was from her secretary that listed what time her train was supposed to leave Manchester and arrive in London. Finding it, she forwarded it to Greg Lestrade, tossed her phone on her unmade bed, and then continued to brush her teeth while returning to the bathroom.

It was unlike Lestrade to call her in on a case like this. She hadn’t heard from him in years now that he was more successful in his division. She didn’t mind, though. It gave her time to further her career in her own division. Getting pulled away to London by Lestrade to help with different cases had really slowed her down. In fact, she probably could have become a detective inspector a lot faster had she stayed in Manchester more often. Before now, she usually had a bag packed near her front door in case she needed to leave at a moment’s notice. She was thankful that he hadn’t called her in during her probation period because if she had left, there was no chance of her becoming a DI.

Rinsing and spitting, she wiped her mouth on the towel she had draped over the side of the sink. She reached for her hairbrush and began to untangle her brown locks and pull them into a ponytail. She straightened her white, three-quarter sleeve collared shirt and tucked it into the waist band of her black slacks. As she put on her watch, she noted the time and began to move at a faster pace. Her train was going to leave in an hour and it took twenty minutes to get to the station by cab from her flat. And who knew what kind of chaos would be happening at the train station on a Monday morning.

She jogged around her flat grabbing any last minute things: files, her pea coat, her favorite pair of Converse, socks. Clenching the files in her teeth, she used her free hand to grab her travel bag and sling it over her shoulder. Her other bag trailed behind her as she pulled it outside and locked the door. She hadn’t even put her shoes on when she hailed the cab to go to the station.

+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+

The train ride was long. It had been some time since she made the nearly two and a half hour venture and she had forgotten how dull it could be. She had probably gone through the files Lestrade had sent to her office two or three times before deciding that there was only so much you could analyze about dead bodies in photos.

Leaning back in her seat and closing her eyes, she tried to go through the cases by memory. She preferred to do this method that way she wasn’t slowed down during the deduction process. A friend had taught her to keep track of the little details because those were the ones that would matter when it came down to connecting all of the puzzle pieces. Not to mention this way she didn’t need to bring all of those papers with her to scenes and risk either losing them or having them fall into the wrong hands. No one could steal her mind so she knew it was a lot safer that way.

Images flashed through her mind like a slideshow. In total there had been five deaths thus far. Three men, two in their 50s and one in his 30s, and two women, one in her 30s and one in her 70s. All five had been stabbed just below their left clavicle, the damage to the heart enough to be deliberate and painful (or at least that’s what she imagined it to be). Entry wounds were very clean and meticulous, as if the killer took his or her time ensuring that they ended up in exactly the same place.

Each victim bled out within half an hour and police were anonymously tipped off about them within 24 hours of their deaths. When police arrived, the only thing they had on their persons beside their personal identification was a newly bloomed rose. None of them were from the same place, all of them had different jobs, and they didn’t share any common acquaintances. Lestrade had even gone as far back as checking if they had all gone to the same schools, and they hadn’t. On the surface, it seemed that there was nothing to connect these five people nor give a motive as to why they were all dead.

+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+

“It’s a perfectly good example of how to waste our time,” the consulting detective snapped.

“She happens to be one of the best in our field,” Lestrade argued, the steam starting to ooze out of his ears.

“Well, she’s not good enough for me,” Sherlock blatantly stated, his eyes piercing into the detective inspector’s.

“Just give her a chance! We’re already at the end of our rope and we have been for almost a month!”

“We wouldn’t be here if your team hadn’t contaminated the last scene!”

“SHERLOCK.” John couldn’t sit through the argument any longer. It was the same argument the two had had the day prior and he didn’t want to be the referee to some childish yelling match.

Sighing in disgust, Sherlock leaned back in the chair he was in and brought his hands into the form of a steeple in front of his mouth. Closing his eyes, he went through the details they had regarding the case. No matter how many times he revisited the information, nothing new presented itself. No amazing epiphany was coming out of the woodwork and for once in his life, he was truly stumped.

But he would never let that on. He was too proud to ever admit that he needed help unless it came when he didn’t ask for it. That usually came from John.

“Has there been no new toxicology reports or scene samples that have been analyzed since we last visited all of the scenes?” John asked in an attempt to alleviate the tension.

Lestrade shook his head. “It’s been a dead end every which way we turn. Even when we hired back Anderson, he couldn’t find anything either.”

“That’s because Anderson is an idiot,” Sherlock insulted, not breaking his prayer-like state.

John rolled his eyes slightly as he walked over to the window of Greg’s office that overlooked the front of Scotland Yard. It wasn’t a situation he was used to seeing Sherlock in which, for once, worried the doctor. Even when put under pressure, John had seen Sherlock solve some outstanding cases and saved a fair amount of lives because of it. Unfortunately, this case had caused Sherlock to become so engrossed that he’d disappear for days on end trying to send messages through his homeless network and make any other helpful contacts in order to find out what was going on. John couldn’t even remember the last time Sherlock had sat down to eat something. His robotic tendencies had taken over.

What made it worse was that Moriarty was back in the picture, which added to the already chaotic mess Sherlock’s mind was in. John wanted to help his friend more but he also had his future family to think about. Mary was two months away from delivery and he hesitated to leave her alone, even for a minute.

Sally Donovan and Philip Anderson walked to the door of Greg’s office and waited to be acknowledged by the DI.

“Yes, what is it?” he asked with irritation.

“Your friend is here,” Donovan informed, her arms crossed as she laid eyes on the detective who looked as if he was sleeping in the chair in front of her. “We sent her to the meeting room since I figured it’d get a bit cramped in here.”

“Any developments?” Anderson asked. Seeing the state that Sherlock was in amused yet scared him. Finally seeing the detective unable to solve a case was a triumph and a tragedy all in the same breath.

Ignoring Anderson, Sherlock quickly got up from his chair and walked past the two people in the doorway. Making a few turns and not caring who he nearly ran over in the process, Sherlock finally reached a meeting room that had Lestrade’s name on the door, indicating that he was the one who had it reserved.

“Be nice,” he heard John warn from behind him.

He smirked. With all that he had argued with Lestrade about, Sherlock intended to give this other DI hell. There was no way that she would be able to help with this case any more than he himself had. The only way she would is if she was him.

And no one was as smart as Sherlock Holmes.

“Well get on with it then,” Greg rushed, waiting impatiently behind Sherlock with Donovan and Anderson.

Sherlock turned the door handle and the group flooded into the room. Opposite from the door was a clear board that had all of the crime scene photos on it for easy viewing. Profiles of each victim were on another board of the same make that was perpendicular to the first. Their pictures as well as their morgue photos were set up side by side. The table in the middle of the room had other photos that were related to the cases. Now they were joined by the new DI’s travel bag, coat, and manila folders that held her copies of the information displayed before them.

At the moment, she had her back to the group, leaning against the table and looking over the photos once again.

“Glad to see you made it alright,” Lestrade began with a smile as he pushed past Sherlock and walked over to the woman. When he reached her, he opened his arms in welcome to her and hugged her.

She laughed as she returned the embrace.

The laugh was all too familiar and Sherlock froze.

He had never expected to see her again after so long.


	2. Chapter 2

“Everyone, this is—“

“Aryn K. Clarke,” Aryn finished, extending her hand towards Donovan, then Anderson.

“These two are my right hand people. If you need anything, they’ll help you tend to it,” Lestrade voluntold, guiding Aryn around the two after their introductions had been complete.

“You must be Dr. Watson,” Aryn started, shaking hands with John.

“Just ‘John’ please. Pleasure to meet you. Greg has told us so much about you,” John politely stated. This girl wasn’t what John was expecting. If he had to guess, she was around Sherlock’s age. Her hair was pulled back in a neat, professional way, and she had an aura about her. She was very polite, but he could tell she meant business and that this case was probably bothering her about as much as it bothered them.

“I hope he’s only told you good things,” she said with a laugh. “When I was first training in the force, Greg was the person I shadowed. When I moved out to Manchester, he kept pulling me back for cases.” Bringing her attention to Sherlock, she continued, “And I’m guessing this is the reason why he stopped calling.”

“Aryn, this is Sherlock Holmes.”

Lestrade was nervous about the exchange, as was everyone. Sherlock wasn’t known for making an exceptional first impression on people and seeing as how harsh he was about her earlier, no one knew what would come out of his mouth.

Aryn walked over to Sherlock and looked up at the detective. “Hello, Sherlock.”

His gaze was intense. It was as if he was frozen in shock or in fear. John had only seen him do this one other time: when he had asked Sherlock to be his best man. John knew that Sherlock’s mind was probably racing at a million miles a minute at that point. What John couldn’t figure out was why. He had been around a lot of other women before and even when he was around someone like Irene Adler, he was able to keep his composure. It did strike John as odd, though, that Aryn wasn’t so formal with Sherlock at their first meeting.

10 years of emotions and thoughts were indeed racing through Sherlock’s mind. As he looked at Aryn, he kept thinking “She hasn’t changed.”

_“It’s about time you got here. Of all people I would expect that you should be able to help solve this. I hope your time is a DI hasn’t softened you. So tell me, what do you know?”_

These are the words Sherlock thought came out of his mouth.

“I’ll go and get us all some coffee then,” Aryn awkwardly announced, walking past Sherlock and making a left down the hallway from which the group had just come.

John’s face was a mixed of confusion and amusement. He walked over to his friend who was still standing in the same position as he had been for the past five minutes. “Sherlock?” He snapped his fingers in front of his face. “Sherlock, you there?”

“Finally—someone’s able to shut him up,” Donovan remarked with a sense of satisfaction. She smirked as she walked past the duo. “Let’s see if she can keep this up,” she laughed as she left the room.

Anderson and Lestrade exchanged looks before following suit.

“Try to get to know her. She’ll probably be here a while so best to get used to how she works,” Lestrade informed John. He looked up to Sherlock again and shook his head. “And please make sure he doesn’t keep doing this. I don’t know if I’d rather have this over his usual…comments.”

John nodded with slight embarrassment as the DI left the room.

As if on cue, Sherlock looked up and around and noted that the room was now empty. “Well that was rude.”

John looked at Sherlock confused and asked, “How do you mean?”

Walking over to the boards, Sherlock continued, “I asked her a question and she completely ignored me.”

He smirked when he realized Sherlock’s blunder. “Sherlock, you didn’t ask her anything.”

It was now Sherlock’s turn to be confused. He turned around to look at John with a bewildered expression. “Didn’t I? I could have sworn that I—“

“You froze, Sherlock. One look at her and you went into shock.”

Looking down at the table in front of him, Sherlock tried to replay in his mind the last few minutes. “So I said—“

“Absolutely nothing,” John finished, crossing his arms in front of him in enjoyment. “How do you know her?”

Sherlock started to putter around the table, looking over the photographs in case there were new ones he wasn’t familiar with. “Know who?”

“Aryn.”

“What makes you think I know her?”

John walked around the table and placed his hand over a photograph Sherlock was looking over. Sherlock looked up at John with slight irritation while John returned the gaze with and expectant one.

Rolling his eyes and walking around John, Sherlock said, “She’s an old…friend. I suppose that’s what you’d call her,” as he waved his hand in the air as if trying to conjure up the right word.

“A friend? You?”

Sherlock shot John a look with narrowed eyes very briefly before leaving the room to return to Lestrade’s office.

John stood in slight disbelief as he started to take in what Sherlock had told him. It would be a situation to watch in the coming days, but for now he too went back to Lestrade’s office. There, he found Lestrade, Sherlock, and Aryn. Lestrade was on the phone, and his expression was grave.

“Alright, we’ll be there soon.” Lestrade hung up the phone and stood up quickly, walking towards his coat that he had draped on one of the chairs earlier in the day. “Another body.”

+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+

The building had been abandoned for many years, as far as Aryn could tell. The only people who moved in and out of it were those who had been going through the building’s contents to try and salvage whatever they could. The wallpapers inside were faded and peeling off of the walls. The floors were dust-covered, tiles were chipped, and the smell was overwhelmingly strong. It was as if someone had killed an animal and left it to rot.

“Victim is the wife of one of the men we found two weeks ago,” Lestrade explained. He, John, Sherlock, and Aryn had turned a few more corners as he began explaining. “When we had initially started to investigate the husband’s murder, we had put her in as a suspect.”

Aryn nodded. “Seems viable. Missing wife, dead husband—that’s a formula for a number one suspect.”

“Except that no one had heard from the wife in a while as well,” John added.

“And here we are,” Sherlock finally stated as the group reached the room that the body was in.

Donovan and Anderson had cleared all of the extra people away from the room as to give Sherlock, John, and Aryn the time and space they needed in order to work.

At first, Aryn didn’t move. She surveyed the room with great intensity, her eyes flicking from place to place, corner to corner. There wasn’t much to the room aside from the body and the rose that sat upon it. Given the smell and the rose’s now dead state, she guessed that the body had been there for quite some time. The room itself was quite dusty and didn’t have any furniture within it. There was a lone picture that hung above the fireplace that was directly across from the door. There were three windows that lined the wall to Aryn’s left that overlooked the street. Two windows to Aryn’s left led to a fire escape which would take a person down to the secluded alley between that building and the next.

Sherlock too stood and took in the room and its layout. In his mind he was going through each of the pictures of previous victims to see if there were any differences that he could see. At the moment, there were none. Squatting down, he took note of the floor.

Aryn did the same, scanning the floor near where the body was. Sherlock looked at her in slight surprise, but ignored the gesture and carried on.

“Were your men wearing shoe covers this time?” Sherlock asked, irritation lacing his voice. It was this particular error that had cost them a better scene analysis the last time they had a victim to look over.

“Yes they were,” Anderson answered, although Sherlock was expecting the answer out of Lestrade.

“Good.”

“So if we can find any shoe prints with clean marks,” Aryn began, turning to Anderson, “then we have something to go off of: shoe size, length of stride which can give us a guess on the killer’s height.”

Anderson looked from face to face with slight shock. “You can’t mean that you buy into what this guy is suggesting,” he said, gesturing towards Sherlock. “He’s psychotic.”

“Sociopath,” Sherlock corrected.

“I do ‘buy into’ what Sherlock is suggesting,” Aryn began, walking towards Anderson. “Now could you please take the photos we need so that we can get on with looking at the body?” She rolled her eyes as she looked at Lestrade desperate for answers and a better forensics team to work with. “Can we not do all of this ourselves?”

“I’ve been asking that since the day I met Anderson,” Sherlock mumbled to himself, inspecting the doorway as well as the hall they had just walked down.

“It’s never stopped you,” Lestrade snapped back, turning his attention back to the room.

John watched the banter that Sherlock and Aryn seemed to have, although it wasn’t with one another. They meshed because their thoughts were on the same wavelength. It was a strange feeling because, in reality, no one really thought on the same wavelength as Sherlock.

Again he found himself noting that she never referred to him as “Mr. Holmes” since Sherlock had never really told her to call him just “Sherlock”.

Lestrade found the exchange quite odd as well. “You two should be married or something. It’s scary the way you two think.”

The comment made both the younger detective inspector and the consulting detective cast glances at each other before they were interrupted by Anderson.

“Photos have been taken. The scene is yours to ruin.”

“Finally!” Sherlock exclaimed. It was as if he was a puppy that was let out into the yard to play. He went from place to place looking over a variety of details. Eventually he made his way to the body where John was already inspecting.

John knelt beside the body, gloves on his hands, and started to feel around the wound that was in the woman’s chest. It was the same as all of the others: very clean, very precise, very painful. Sighing, he began to inspect other parts, doing tasks such as looking at her fingernails and checking her pupils for any dilation. “Nothing out of the ordinary in terms of all of the victims. Same cause of death, just seems that this one was here for about 10 to 15 days.”

“Which is about how long the husband has been dead, right?” Aryn asked, kneeling next to John.

“Yeah, it’s been 13 days since we found the husband,” Lestrade confirmed, flipping through a small notebook that he carried with him that had information he needed. “Buy why no tip off this time?”

“It’s a mistake,” Sherlock quickly answered, walking over to John and Aryn.

“Mistake?” John asked.

“Yes, a mistake. There are several differences not only with the circumstances of this victim and the last but also the placement.”

“The rose isn’t in her hands, it’s cast off on her shoulder as if it’s been merely dropped,” Aryn began, now circling the body.

“Precisely. The killer took care with the first few victims. All of their bodies had been treated intimately, as if it were some kind of ritual,” Sherlock continued, not missing a beat.

“She’s missing her wedding ring which is odd since all of the other victims were found with all of their jewelry or expensive pieces still on them.”

“Judging by the lack of neatness in both her hair and her clothes, she was a rushed placement,” Sherlock noted. All of the other bodies had been well combed and their clothes looked as if they had been freshly pressed. This body was disheveled, as if it had just been brought out of the trunk of a car and placed on the floor.

“Seems as if she was an after-thought,” Aryn finished, looking around the room. “We’ll have to wait until Miss Hooper can take a better look at the body.” Not seeing any other differences aside from what she and Sherlock had found, she walked towards Lestrade and rubbed her face with her hands. “I suppose you can let the rest of the forensics team in here to see if they can find anything else.”

+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+

Upon returning to Scotland Yard, Aryn could feel that she was being watched with more intensity than when she had arrived that morning. Judging by the way Donovan and Anderson tag teamed against Sherlock, she felt she had a target on her back now as well. Not only that, but she knew that John was trying to put the pieces together in terms of everything that had happened that day. She didn’t blame him, though. It probably wasn’t every day that you could find someone who not only could come to conclusions like Sherlock but could also follow his thought patterns to a tee.

Then again, what they had figured out that day was minor and easy enough for anyone with a magnifying glass to deduce.

Returning to the original meeting room, Aryn began to gather her bags and folders while talking with Greg.

“Are you sure you’d rather stay in Manchester? Contrary to what you’d believe, we could use your help here at Scotland Yard.”

Aryn laughed. “Greg, I’m definitely a lot happier in Manchester. Why are you badgering me about this now? Feel like you’re getting too old for the job?” A playful stab. It wasn’t unlike her to tease Lestrade about his age. He was like a father to her and had always taken care of her as such. All of the shortcuts and tricks she knew about her job had come from him and she was very thankful for his guidance.

His smile was one of relief after the day they just had. “Once you settle in to your new flat, do you wanna grab a pint?”

“Only if you’re buying.”

“Don’t I always?”

Aryn smiled as she gathered the rest of her things and began to walk out of the office. Taking the elevator, she started to shuffle her bags inside and pressed the “1” button to go down to the first floor.

“Wait!” she heard a familiar voice call.

She held the elevator door button open, when she saw John jogging over, to allow him inside.

“Thanks,” he said between breaths.

“Not a problem.” She looked at him again in a bit more detail than before. He was a military man as far as she could tell. He was married and seemed to be a very nice guy. The fact that he was close with Sherlock was probably a good thing for the latter party. He needed someone more stable in his life considering how unstable he was able to get.

“How many months?” she randomly asked as the elevator doors closed.

“Sorry?” John looked up at her slightly confused by the question that had come out of nowhere.

“Oh, sorry,” she apologized with a smile. “How many months along is your wife? You are expecting a baby aren’t you?”

John smiled as he looked down at the ground. “Let me guess. Judging by my wedding ring, the bags under my eyes, and…?”

“…the fact that you were gazing into the shop windows next to the apartment we visited today, I figured you folks must be getting close. The pram you were looking at was nice. Probably costs a pretty penny as well.”

Laughing, John replied, “It’s amazing.”

“Babies? Oh yes. They’re the best part of the married life, or so I’m told.”

“No, no, not that. You.”

Aryn scrunched her eyebrows together as the elevator opened to the ground floor. “Me?”

Grabbing one of her bags, John walked Aryn through the lobby and out the door towards the street. “Yes you.”

“And why is that?”

“If you don’t mind me saying, I’m in slight disbelief in how you and Sherlock are so similar. Except…your deductions come out in a much nicer way.”

Aryn chuckled as she hailed a cab. “You’d be surprised at a lot of things, John.”

“Did you know Sherlock prior to today?”

She nodded as a cab finally pulled up to the curb. “We were…friends, I suppose.” There was hesitation in her voice that John recognized from when he had talked to Sherlock earlier.

He proceeded to load Aryn’s larger bag into the back of the cab and opened the door for her. “‘Were’?”

“Another story for another day John.” She smiled as tossed her other bag into the cab. “Thanks for helping me. Greg and I will be going out for a pint later if you and your wife want to join us. I’d love to meet her.”

John nodded as he watched Aryn climb into the cab. The dark vehicle pulled away from the curb, its red taillights fading into the distance.


	3. Chapter 3

The pub was packed. Faces were laughing, talking, and drinking every which way she turned. It was hard to find Lestrade in all of the chaos. Crowds had always made Aryn nervous. She usually never went to places like this by herself and she guessed it was because her job exposed her to the dangers of the world. Creeps hid in plain sight, targeting their victims when they were most susceptible. She went through her own struggles in college with drunks at bars and never liked to revisit those memories.

She soon found herself being flagged down by Lestrade sitting at a booth just after the end of the bar counter. He wasn’t alone, John and his wife both smiling when they turned to see who Lestrade was calling to. Hurrying to her seat, she let out a huge sigh of relief not only that she had made it on time, but that there was a nice, cold pint sitting in front of her as soon as she sat down.

“I’ve needed one of these for a long time,” Aryn commented, taking a large swig. The cool brew immediately relaxed her, the amber liquid easing the tensions she had been holding for so long. Looking across the table, she realized that she had failed to introduce herself. “Oh!” she exclaimed, wiping her mouth and setting her drink to the side. She extended her hand and said, “I’m Aryn. Pleasure to meet you!”

“Mary, nice to meet you as well,” Mary said with a smile.

“John tells me you’re expecting! Do you know what you’re having yet?”

The conversation carried on for quite some time with the discussion of children and John and Mary’s wedding night. Aryn thought that it was adorable to think that the night John and Mary became one entity was the same night that they would also find out that they would become a family. Although it was sudden, their parental roles seemed to suit them. She could tell they were truly happy to be having this child.

“So what about you then?” Lestrade started, sipping from his beer. “No man in your life at the moment? No bloke for me to harass?”

She blushed at the thought. “Greg, you know me better than that. I work too much to have a decent social life. Why do you think I was so happy to see this pint?”

“In all this time that I haven’t seen you, not even one man has tried to win your hand? I’ll find you one right now if you like.”

The alcohol was having an effect on Lestrade at that point. Aryn laughed at him as she said, “No, no that’s quite alright. I’m fine for the moment.” Looking down at the pint in her hands, being in a place like this, moreover being back in proximity with old friends, brought Aryn down to a strange level.

In her life, there were only a few things that mattered: family, work, and school. In terms of her family, there was never really anything or anyone to discuss. She was very detached from home and didn’t hold a balance between all of the aspects of her life. After leaving for college, she had set out to create a successful life. Here she was, living her “dream”, and yet it didn’t feel complete. Not just yet.

+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+

_Sitting in the library, she thumbed through the various pages of the textbooks in front of her. Notes were spread out across the dark brown, wooden table that had seen many other studious people before her. She held a pencil between her teeth and had another keeping her hair out of her face in a messy bun._

_Was there an upcoming exam? No. Was there a pop quiz expected in the next class? Not in the slightest. She was doing research for fun. Her logic class astounded her and piqued her interest so much so that when she wasn’t reading her textbooks for math or science, she was learning about symbols, sentences, and patterns._

_She hadn’t noticed the man who was sitting across the room in a red chair watching her dabble away at her work that night. He was supposed to be studying, but had found the classes too slow for his comprehension. This girl fascinated him, though. She was learning about logic and deductions for fun, noting her scribbles as he walked past her earlier. He wasn’t sure if there was anyone else who did that aside from himself and his brother. It was beside the point, though._

_In his lap he had a file regarding a case he had been working on for a friend. Pictures of a crime scene were at his fingertips and he was itching to go out into the city to find more evidence. Things had been getting boring as of late and he didn’t enjoy talking to his skull as much anymore. He wanted someone to bounce ideas off of. Someone to keep his deductions in check._

_Closing the folder, he put it away in his book bag and stood up, slinging the bag over his shoulder. Ruffling his hair into its usual messy state, he began to walk over to the girl who was intensely writing down sentences, fallacies, and symbols._

_“Enjoy all of this…do you?” he had asked, picking up one of the books from in front of the girl and flipping through the pages._

_“Depends…why do you want to know?” she replied, pulling the pencil out of her mouth and looking up at the dark haired man. He was tall and his face was slender. His eyes were piercing, even in the dull light of the library. He pulled his attention away from the book and locked eyes with hers. His gaze was wanting and eager._

_“If you do, I have a proposition for you. Meet me at the boys’ dormitory in an hour if you’re interested.” Placing the book back down in front of her, Sherlock turned on his heel and left the library in a rush._

_Aryn was dumbfounded, unsure of what had just happened. Was this some kind of joke? Was she really going to meet this man?_

_Of course she was. Who was she kidding? Ahead in all of her readings for class, uninterested in getting wasted with her roommate; what else was she to do to spend her time besides keeping her nose in books?_

_…_

_An hour had passed by and Sherlock waited outside of the dorms on a bench. He pulled his scarf tighter as he leaned back and closed his eyes. The gentle night breeze nipped at his skin as he waited. Tree branches swayed with the wind and rustled with excitement. It was going to be another cold night._

_A new sound graced his ears while he was listening to nature’s symphony with the wind: the footsteps of an eager companion._

_“You’re late,” he stated without opening his eyes._

_Aryn stopped suddenly and placed her hands on her hips. “Not everyone has the luxury of living so close to the library.”_

_“You could have left your books in my dorm.”_

_“I don’t even know your name.”_

_Sherlock opened his eyes and turned to face the girl. She was dressed in dark grey pea coat, Converse gracing her feet. She had jeans and a dark red scarf around her neck. Her hair was pulled back in a tight bun which was a much different appearance than back at the library._

_“The name is Sherlock Holmes.”_

_She extended her hand towards him. “Aryn K. Clarke.”_

_He looked at her hand and ignored the gesture, standing up and towering over her small figure. “I have someone to meet. I’ll fill you in on the details on our walk there.”_

_Aryn stood in shock once again as Sherlock walked away from her._

_He turned, noticing she hadn’t followed suit. “Are you coming or not?”_

_“Do you expect me to just go with you? A man I barely know...”_

_“You know my name, you know what university I attend, and if you’re any good with your logic, you should be able to tell me what my major is as well as what year I am.”_

_She shrugged her shoulders as she crossed her arms. “Not that difficult to tell with the dorm you came out of before you sat on the bench as well as the books you usually bring to the library.”_

_He smirked. She was sharper than he thought. “That’s enough to be going on, don’t you think? You can trust me. And if anything happens, you have enough information to turn me in. Now come.” He turned around once again, Aryn trailing behind him._

+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+

She woke up slowly. That dream was one she had kept having ever since she came to London. The night she and Sherlock had first met was an adventure in itself. After creeping around old buildings and stealing several files from a facility, she had become addicted to the feeling of not only going out on adventures, but feeling useful in her time at school. She had learned much more being out with Sherlock than she ever did reading her books, so they had begun to spend more and more time together both in and out of school settings.

Sitting up in her bed, she stretched and looked over at the clock. There was still ten minutes remaining until her alarm would go off. It wasn’t worth it to go back to sleep, so she kicked her legs over the side of the bed and walked to the bathroom to get ready for the impending day.

Her new flat was nothing to brag about. It had one bedroom, one bathroom, a small kitchen, and a living area large enough to accommodate five or six people if she ever wanted company over. There was a window where she could sit and look at the busy streets below. She lived within walking distance of a few shops where she could get food and some books if she got bored. At the rate the case was going, she might need to get some reading material eventually.

Finishing her morning routine, Aryn walked into the kitchen to grab something for breakfast. She had gone to the store before heading home the night before to get some quick meals to make on the go: bagels and oatmeal. As she was fixing herself some oatmeal, a splash of color near her window sill caught her eye.

A deep red color sat on the creamy white sill. Her curtains were flowing slightly with the breeze that was coming from outside. She knew she had closed and locked that window the night before.

Reaching for the gun in her holster, she started to go through her flat, checking every place that someone could hide. No one was there.

Walking cautiously over to the window, she found a large, fragrant rose. The thorns were cut off and a card was attached. “ _Welcome Detective Inspector Clarke_ ,” it read, “ _to memory lane_.” That was all. There was no signature, no date, no other indication of who could have written the note.

Rushing to her suitcase in her bedroom, she grabbed a small forensics kit she stowed away for emergencies and printed the sill as well as the stem of the rose. No fingerprints or handprints showed up. The card didn’t have any prints either. The paper was normal computer paper that could have been bought at any store. The message was printed from a printer with no disruptions in the ink.

+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+

She bagged the rose with the card and caught a cab to Scotland Yard. Aryn rushed to the elevator and waited impatiently as people stopped on every floor prior to Lestrade’s to get off and on. When she finally reached her destination, she quickly sped over to his office to see John and Sherlock already there with Lestrade, their faces muddled with worry, confusion, and frustration.

“What is this killer getting at?” she asked, tossing the rose on Lestrade’s desk. “I found this when I was getting ready to come here. Left it on the window of my flat.”

Looking down at where she had tossed the rose, she noted that there were three more next to it. Each card was addressed to Lestrade, John, and Sherlock.

“If we knew, we’d have an answer for you,” Lestrade explained, rubbing his temple as he leaned back in his chair.

“Did you—“

“I dusted for prints, checked the paper as well as the ink, and found nothing,” Aryn answered, not even bothering to face Sherlock. “This killer is taunting us. They know we’re not getting anywhere with this and now we know that they can get to us without us even knowing. One of us could have been killed last night.”

John’s jaw clenched at the thought of Mary being hurt. He was even more protective of her now that their family was at risk of being hurt. It was one thing to help Sherlock with cases before, but there was much more at stake.

Without saying another word, Sherlock left the room and went back downstairs.

“Probably going to the morgue. He mentioned something about seeing Molly,” Lestrade explained as he gazed off in the direction Sherlock had gone. He returned his gaze to Aryn whose fists were clenched tight and breaths were deep. “Sit down, you look like you’re about to burst a vessel.”

Closing her eyes and taking a deep breath, she sat in the chair across from Lestrade and stared at the roses.

“I went through the victims’ files again last night,” John began, “and I still don’t see a connection. These seem to be purely random.”

“There’s got to be something,” Aryn commented, pulling the other three roses to her.

“ _Hello Dr. Watson. Say ‘hi’ to the family for me_ ,” the first note read.

“ _Oh Sherlock_ ,” the other note began, “losing your touch.”

Lestrade’s note only had his name attached to it.

The game was getting much harder.


	4. Chapter 4

She had gone nearly all day without any food aside from the small amount of oatmeal she could stomach after her discovery that morning. Sitting in the meeting room with all of the evidence, Aryn was combing through every small detail that she could find about the victims.

They had all led relatively normal lives. Nothing screamed out to her as being out of the ordinary. She was waiting for Donovan to bring her a list of recent purchases each of the victims had to see if there was anywhere they had visited that they had in common. They were pretty much splicing hairs at that point, but it was the best trail they had to go on.

The papers she had brought with her for notes were empty, to her dismay. Seeing all of the blank papers in front of her, Aryn decided to start writing out formulas and symbolic logic sentences like she used to do when she was stuck on a problem in college. Truth tables started to come out of the end of her pencil as she leaned her face on her non-writing hand, her elbow being the support she had against the table. She looked as if she was a bored school girl doodling in class.

Sherlock walked in, looking over some papers, and didn’t expect anyone to have been in the room. He stopped for a brief moment, Aryn not even looking up from her notes, then continued to walk towards the boards to look over each of the victims’ profiles. He tacked up the morgue results from the last victim, leaned back on the table, and sighed.

He was worried that if they waited too long, there would be another death. The press had started to get antsy and were bugging him about the case every time he left 221B Baker Street. They were going on about the serial killer that was on the loose, asking him if the people of London were safe on the streets. They had even gotten around to harassing Mrs. Hudson about it, and he definitely wasn’t a fan of that. The pressure of this unsolved puzzle was starting to build.

He turned to look over his shoulder to see what Aryn was doing. Furrowing his brow, he walked around and placed one hand next to where she was leaning her head, hovering over her shoulders to watch her write down what she could remember. “You still do this?”

She jumped slightly, not realizing where he had gone and how close to her he was. Regaining her composure, she said, “To pass the time. If I don’t practice, I’ll forget it all and then what good would it have done me to study all those hours in school?”

Shrugging, he pulled the paper away from her to look at what she had written so far.

“Hey!” she exclaimed standing up and meeting him toe-to-toe.

He held the paper above her head so that he wouldn’t be disturbed by her grabbing for it. It reminded him of when he’d harass her in college about her work. He’d do this when he wanted a break from his cases. Causing trouble to Aryn had been his main source of entertainment prior to being able to bother John about his life.

“I’m surprised you remember all of this,” turning his back to her and leaning his hip against the table. “I can’t think of a time that you ever used these while we solved crimes together.”

“Give it back,” she argued, attempting to swipe the paper away from his hands.

“And someone’s gotten a bit feisty while becoming a DI. Is that something they teach you while you’re learning the job? I’ve noticed Lestrade has some sass every now and again that could rival even Donovan.”

“And someone’s become an even bigger git since I last saw him. Give it here,” she argued, trying to grab the paper again. She eventually got it back after Sherlock brought it within her reach. She crumpled it up and tossed it into the bin that sat in the corner next to the door. “Do you have any new leads?”

He shook his head as he shifted his weight to sit on the table. “I have some people looking into some information for me but until it comes back, I suppose we’ll just have to go with your idea of their financial records.”

“Glad to see that an idea of mine appeals to you,” Aryn noted, starting to walk around Sherlock. When she would work on cases with Sherlock, her ideas were usually shot down because they were too obvious. Either that or Sherlock had already acted on her suggestion and he was disappointed that she didn’t have a new option to look into.

While she had been going about her day, she hadn’t noticed that one of the laces of her shoes had come undone and was dragging on the floor. As she stepped forward, her foot caught one of the laces and she felt as if she had started to fall in slow motion.

Aryn put out her hands in front of her to brace for the fall, but instead of making contact with the floor, she felt an arm reach around her waist and pull her up to safety. After realizing that she wasn’t feeling the sting of pain or embarrassment, she registered the feeling of Sherlock’s chest making contact with her back. His breaths were as deep as hers, telling her that he hadn’t anticipated her fall nor did he guess that his reaction would be so quick. His arm sat securely around her waist, and she felt her heart beating at a million beats a minute.

+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+

_“Is it really necessary for us to be all the way up here?” Aryn had asked. She and Sherlock were trying to get into a facility through the roof. Sherlock was looking for the hatch that would bring them down into the office they needed, the light of his flashlight being his only aide. “Why couldn’t we go through a window or something?”_

_He ignored her complaints, looking around each chimney and vent. They had either scaled the wrong building or the hatch had magically disappeared. He figured they had to go to the next building over._

_By this time, they had been out several times together to gather information. Aryn had proven herself worthy on five cases now, Sherlock getting more comfortable with having an assistant. It was an interesting feeling having to walk someone through his thought processes. Somewhat of a bother for him at times, but Aryn caught on faster and faster with each case._

_“We’re going to have to jump,” he figured, walking over to the edge of the building they were on. The jump to the next ledge was maybe six feet away. With a running start, he’d make it. He turned back to look at Aryn whose face had got a pale white._

_“Jump?” she asked, also having noted the distance. After looking from Sherlock to the next building several times, she timidly admitted, “I-I-I can’t make it.”_

_“You can trust me,” he reassured, just as he had on their first case. He started to walk back towards her and gave her a look of confidence and expectancy._

_She had never known what to make of that look. After going on these cases with Sherlock, she detected that it was very possible that to him, she was expendable. She was just another mind to use to banter around ideas. If he lost her, it wasn’t a major setback for him. That’s what made her even more nervous about the jump._

_While she had been lost in her thoughts and worries, Sherlock had already made the jump to the next building and was waiting impatiently for Aryn. “Soon please, if you will. We don’t have much time.”_

_She swallowed hard. “Maybe you should go alone. I can wait here.”_

_“Just hurry up!” he called out, his patience wearing thin._

_Her heart was pounding. Her breaths were quick. All she could hear was her pulse hammering in her ears. Walking a few steps to the right, she lined herself up with Sherlock on the other building. Closing her eyes and taking a deep breath, she tried to envision herself making it across. She had read somewhere that if you could see yourself completing an impossible task, it made it easier to attack it. She felt no more confident when she opened her eyes._

_She didn’t bother thinking any more on the matter. Focusing on Sherlock, she sprinted with every bit of energy her muscles could muster. Soon, she felt her feet leave the safety of the rooftop behind her, instantly regretting her decision to jump. Aryn watched as her legs reached out desperately for the opposing ledge and for a moment, she thought she could make it. Her toes made contact and she felt relieved._

_The relief was short lived. One foot slipped off and her heart dropped. She looked at Sherlock with wide eyes as her arms reached out frantically. Her mouth opened to scream but no noise left it. Many things raced through her mind as she felt gravity pulling her away from her destination. How could she have been so foolish as to think she was going to make it? The bottom of this building would be her maker. Tears began to fall freely from the corners of her eyes._

_Without warning, she felt a strong hand reach for one of her arms and pull hard towards the building she had jumped for. An arm wrapped around her waist and another clamped itself around her shoulders, pulling her into Sherlock’s body. His warmth enveloped her._

_He could feel her heavy breaths and her raging pulse. Her arms wrapped around his waist quickly as he heard her soft whimpers muffled into his body. The noise caused his chest to tighten; a strange feeling for the man who wasn’t concerned with any other humans other than himself and his family (and even that was a reach at times). The adrenaline rush between the two of them was astounding._

_He learned one thing that night: he never intended to put her in that kind of danger again._

+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+

As his mind faded back into the current situation, Sherlock realized his arm was still wrapped tightly around Aryn’s waist, just as it was that night that he saved her. He noticed she wasn’t making an effort to remove it. Her pulse was still elevated but her breaths were becoming steadier now.

She looked over her shoulder at him, her eyes more vibrant now than when he had walked in the room. “I don’t think tripping over a shoelace compares to jumping roof tops, does it?”

For the first time since she had arrived, Sherlock laughed. The tension in his eyes melted away and for a moment, she could see the young college boy that had started her crazy thirst for adventure. A smile spread across Aryn’s face as she shared in the laughter. The ice had finally been broken.

“Hey did you two want to go and grab—” John stopped midsentence as he looked at the situation before him. He instantly regretted walking in while multitasking on his phone. The sight of Sherlock’s arm wrapped around Aryn and the two laughing about something was the last thing he expected to see that day (or ever).

Aryn’s laugh faded as she casually walked away from Sherlock, leaving him with a small trace of a smile as he gazed upon the pictures hanging before him once more.

“Um…sorry did I interrupt something?” John asked, eyeing Aryn suspiciously.

She cleared her throat as she straightened her shirt. “No, no. Sherlock just saved me from a nasty fall is all. What were you going to ask us?”

In disbelief, John looked from Aryn to Sherlock, then back to Aryn. “I was just going to ask if you two wanted to grab some lunch.”

A beep came from Sherlock’s pocket. “No thanks,” Sherlock quickly answered. He hopped off of the table and walked quickly past the two who were standing near the door as he pulled out his cell phone. A text had reached him and he needed to meet someone in his homeless network for information.

After he left, John gave Aryn and expectant look.

“Shut up,” she said, pushing past John playfully. “I’ll join you for a sandwich down the street if you like,” she called back to him.

+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+

Later that night, Aryn found herself back in the same pub that she had been in the night before. This time she was alone, aside from the financial records that Donovan had given her on her way out of the building that afternoon. She had only brought a small amount with her that night since there were literally four or five boxes filled with transactions that she would have the pleasure of getting to know over the next few days.

Enjoying some of the pub food and the fun atmosphere, Aryn set the papers down for a moment and scanned the bar. People were there either with their significant others or with their friends enjoying their relief from reality. She felt it was funny that this would be a place of escape for both good and bad reasons. She noted the other patrons who were sitting at the bar who were alone, either watching the telly or staring into their brew as if it were a crystal ball with the answers to all of their problems.

Taking a deep breath, she looked at her own half-finished glass and thought back on the day. Her exchange with Sherlock had been bugging her since she and John had gone out to lunch. She noticed that John was trying very hard to not push the matter anymore than what he already had. He probably felt awkward about walking in on them in such a position.

If she had to be honest with herself, although the initial exchange was a happy one, she felt scared. Trusting Sherlock again was going to be a difficult task all in itself, especially after what had happened in their past. She feared being alone. She didn’t want to suffer through that again.

Before she knew it, midnight had struck and she was still on the same page that she had been on when she started her second beer. Rubbing her eyes, she figured it would be a good idea to head back to her flat and get some shut eye. She gathered her things, left tip for the bar on the table, then proceeded to catch a cab home.

+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+

_“You know what people say about him, right?” her roommate, Thalia, asked. The two girls were sitting in their dorm room enjoying a long awaited girls’ night. Since Aryn didn’t enjoy going to parties or hanging out with Thalia’s other group of friends, Thalia set aside days for both of them to enjoy one another’s company. She enjoyed Aryn’s sense of humor and sharp wit, which was a breath of fresh air compared to her the other group she tended to frequent. Tonight, she thought their hangout was much needed because of the rumors she had heard regarding her roommate and a certain Sherlock Holmes._

_“Has it occurred to you that I don’t really care about what other people think?” Aryn said with a laugh, popping a few more pieces of popcorn into her mouth. “What do you want to watch tonight? Mystery or horror movie?”_

_Thalia sighed as she grabbed her friend’s wrist to shift Aryn’s focus. “I’m serious Ryn. People don’t have very nice things to say about this guy and the fact that you’re hanging out with him—“_

_“What? Tarnishes my reputation of being that weird girl that studies in the library too much?” Aryn rolled her eyes as she continued to look through the movie collection the two shared. “I don’t have much a reputation to ruin, Lia.”_

_“But that’s not the point!” Thalia groaned with frustration, falling backwards on the floor with a pillow pressed to her face. Her muffled voice continued, “You’re going to get hurt if you hang out any more with this bloke. I’m almost certain of it.”_

_Sighing deeply, Aryn turned to Thalia and began, “I know what I’m doing, Lia, okay? Sherlock has been nothing but nice to me.” She had wanted to say more about him saving her the other night, but mention of nearly losing her life because Sherlock put her in that situation in the first place may have set her friend off the edge._

_Thalia sat up and looked at Aryn with the most serious face Aryn had ever seen her use in the last two years she had known her. “Ryn…I don’t want to see you get hurt, whether it be physically or emotionally. This guy has trouble written all over him.”_

_Aryn gave her a pleading look. It was one meant to make Thalia feel guilty, and she felt it 100%._

_“Fine,” Thalia surrendered, putting up her hands in defeat. “Just…” she took Aryn’s hands in hers, causing Aryn to keep steady eye contact. “…make sure that if anything goes amiss, you come and tell me. Even if it means that you even start to like the guy. I want to know everything. Alright?”_

+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+

The photo of her and Thalia she kept near the entranceway was a reminder of why Aryn had become a detective inspector in the first place. Her best friend had always been there for her, whether it was protecting her from people that saw Aryn’s “differences” as a method of harassing her or supporting her through every decision Aryn made, good or bad.

She kicked off her shoes and dropped her bag on the couch, walking into her bedroom with sleep pulling at her eyes.

As she grabbed clothes out of her dresser so she could shower, she finally noticed that her kitchen light had been on when she entered. She had left it off when she left her flat that morning. She saw shoes connected to legs that stretched from the side of the kitchen table that she couldn’t see from her room.

It was as if her heart stopped beating. Someone was in her flat and she had literally walked right past them. How long had they been there? What if it was the killer?

She set her clothes down in a rush and removed her gun from its holster. Her grip was slightly unsteady as she tiptoed towards her bedroom door.

Aryn turned the corner as fast as she could, her mind uncertain of who, or what, she would find.


	5. Chapter 5

She was staring down the person in her kitchen who, in surprise, had thrown his hands up in surrender now that he was staring down the barrel of a gun.

“John!” she exclaimed with relief, setting her gun down on the table. “What in the bloody hell—“

“I’m sorry,” he stammered out, tension easing out of him as Aryn put the gun down. “I had stopped by and saw the door was open.”

“Announce yourself next time, if you’d please,” she scolded, walking over to the kitchen sink. She grabbed a glass that was sitting on the counter, filled it with water, and took a hefty drink. After calming her nerves, she turned to John and asked, “What are you doing here so late?”

He stood up and rubbed the back of his head. “Um…Sherlock hasn’t come back to Baker Street yet. Mrs. Hudson called me to ask where he was. I thought maybe you’d know.”

She chuckled as she set the glass back on the counter. “And you find this to be strange behavior? As long as I’ve known him, disappearing suddenly and then reappearing just as suddenly is pretty normal. I don’t know where he is.”

John nodded in annoyance as he stated, “Yes it may be, but I’m just…I dunno. I’m worried more about him than usual.”

Aryn nodded as she folded her arms across her chest. “You want some tea?”

John nodded as he sat back in the wooden kitchen chair. Rubbing his face with his hands, he sighed. “How did you handle him? Before, I mean.”

She laughed as she set the kettle on the stove to allow the water to boil. “I didn’t have to baby sit him, if that’s what you’re asking.”

He laughed slightly, thinking about how their friendship consisted of a lot of John chasing Sherlock around as if he was a three-year-old child who had consumed far too much sugar. It was exhausting business. With the baby coming, John was worried that once his attention shifted away from Sherlock, Sherlock would go back into his old ways. John had always told himself that if he ever saw any bags of white powder in Sherlock’s possession, he’d literally knock some sense into him. It was a waste of a brilliant mind if Sherlock was to succumb to drugs once more.

Sitting across from John, Aryn sighed. “College,” she randomly said.

“Sorry?” John asked, now looking up at the DI with more attention than he had previously.

“College. That’s how Sherlock and I met.”

He leaned back in his chair, preparing himself to process what Aryn was going to tell him. “And how exactly did you get caught up with him?”

“Probably the same way he reeled you in. The want for adventure, a need for a companion.”

He nodded in understanding. “And you two didn’t have problems?”

She laughed heartily. “Oh no, we did. It was a rather dysfunctional friendship for the first few months. He’d only talk to me when he had a case. Saved my life once or twice, so I do owe him that. But it never extended to something more than that.”

Her face scrunched up a little as she finished her last sentence.

“What?” John asked, noticing the change.

She shifted in her chair slightly as she said, “I suppose there was a turning point where Sherlock finally saw that I wanted to be more than just his tag-along.”

His eyes widened. “What like...like...”

“…a friend.”

It wasn’t what John had expected. He had honestly expected her to say something along the lines of being lovers. Aryn had struck him as someone who was very sociable and able to get along with nearly anyone. The way she had said the word “friend” made him think that there was much more to her than met the eye. It was possible that Sherlock was her saving grace, just as Sherlock had been his.

Aryn was quiet now, staring with vacant eyes at the table in front of her. When the killer had said she’d be visiting memory lane, she had no idea how true that statement was.

John sat uncomfortably as Aryn sat in silence. He looked over to the clock that hung on her wall. It was 1 o’clock. “Maybe I should be going,” he announced, starting to stand.

“John,” Aryn suddenly called, looking up at the man. “Sorry, I…um…”

He sat back down, looking at her with concerned eyes. “You need to talk about something?”

She nodded. “Do you want to know how Sherlock and I actually became friends?”

He looked at her with curious eyes. “If that’s something you’re willing to share with me, I’m here to listen.”

She smiled. “Mary is lucky to have you John,” she said with a chuckle.

+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+

_She had been at the pub for once in her life while in college. Thalia had managed to drag her out of the library for some fun. Sherlock hadn’t bothered to talk to her for the last two weeks, so Aryn had once again found comfort keeping her nose in a textbook. Was she worried? Of course, but she knew Thalia wouldn’t approve of her worrying over Sherlock. After thorough convincing, Aryn found herself sitting at a booth with a pint between her hands, the condensation making them cold and damp._

_Looking around the bar, it was a better atmosphere than what she thought it would be like. She enjoyed seeing Thalia having fun and had even shared a few decent conversations with the people who had joined them. It was possible that Aryn would make more of an effort to come out with Thalia if this is what her experiences would be like._

_One particular person caught her by surprise. Sherlock had been sitting in the corner for a while by himself. He was waiting for someone. He had no files with him nor did he have any books. She thought it was odd to see him in a bar. It wasn’t “his scene”, so to speak. People walked past him as if he wasn’t even there, which made her pity him slightly._

_“Oh no,” Thalia complained, sitting across from Aryn. “You’re not going to go over there, are you?”_

_Aryn shrugged. “I don’t want him to sit by himself…”_

_Thalia rolled her eyes as she looked back over at Sherlock. “Well, it doesn’t look like he’s by himself now.”_

_Aryn turned her head quickly to see Sherlock sitting with a hooded figure. It wasn’t a very stimulating conversation between the two of them, and she felt something wasn’t right. Sherlock’s eyes were darting from place to place as if he was doing something he wasn’t supposed to be doing._

_His hand slid across the table and the hooded person took something from him. Cash._

_Counting it carefully, the figure produced a small, plastic bag from his pocket and slid it back over to Sherlock. He then left the table quickly, going out of the door and out of sight._

_Sherlock quickly put the bag in his pocket and started to make for the door as well. His long legs took him out very quickly, giving Aryn little time to catch up._

_Thalia called out to her friend. “Ryn!”_

_Aryn kept walking past people, pushing them when needed._

_“Ryn!” Thalia called again, starting to follow her._

_She made it to the doorway of the pub and looked left and right. She spotted a figure a ways down the road on her right with Sherlock’s height and blue scarf. She started to jog after him._

_“Aryn!” Thalia called out one last time, watching her friend go after the mysterious man._

_She was starting to run out of breath since her strides were so small compared to Sherlock’s. Even when they went out on cases, she usually had to take two or three times the amount of steps when Sherlock was off on a lead. He had no time to wait for her._

_“Sherlock!” she finally called out._

_He whirled around, his eyes wide as he looked down at the small, brown haired girl. “Why are you following me?”_

_She took a few deep breaths as she started, “I saw you at the bar. You left in such a hurry and I—“_

_“I’m late for something. You’re wasting my time.”_

_She saw the dark circles under his eyes and the lack of brilliance his eyes usually showed. His cheeks were slightly sunken in, suggesting he hadn’t eaten for a few days. Sweat beaded on his forehead and his eyes flicked from one direction to another, watching their surroundings._

_“What is wrong with you?” she asked, although she was smart enough to put two and two together._

_“It’s none of your concern,” Sherlock snapped, turning back towards the direction he was going originally._

_Frustrated, Aryn jogged once more to catch up to Sherlock. She got close enough to stick her hand in his pocket and pull out the bag containing white powder._

_He quickly turned around and grabbed her wrist. “Drop it,” he growled, a glint of anger running across his face._

_“No,” she sneered, twisting her wrist out of his grasp. Looking down at the bag, she felt a sudden wave of disappointment overwhelm her. She looked up at him and with a snarl said, “How dare you.”_

_His angry expression dropped off of his face and he suddenly looked confused._

_“How dare you throw away such a beautiful mind with this…” She looked at the powder in disgust._

_“You’re not of any importance to me, so why should this be of concern to you?” Sherlock sharply stabbed, locking eyes with Aryn._

_The statement took her aback, her eyes starting to flicker with rage._

_“Because it’s what friends do Sherlock!” She tossed the bag into a nearby storm drain, the action not eliciting any emotion out of Sherlock._

_Walking away, she didn’t even offer him a chance for a rebuttal. She was furious with him, and she wasn’t entirely sure why. Sherlock was right, they weren’t friends, at least not in his eyes. But she valued him so much because of the value she thought she had to him. Obviously, she was wrong. Emotions started to flood her body to the point of exhaustion. Returning to her dorm, she flopped onto the bed and immediately fell asleep._

_The next morning, she woke up with a headache. The sun was shining brightly through her window and she could hear Thalia snoring in the next room. Sitting up, she started to piece together what had happened the night before and became angry once again. How could she have been so stupid as to trust Sherlock so much?_

_She showered, changed into warm clothes, grabbed some books, and then headed to the library. She wanted time to herself without any interruptions. Her mind needed time to process what had happened not only in the last 12 hours, but during the past few months. She felt as if she was being pulled along by a string; like a marionette with no control of what she was going to do next._

_She dropped her books on the table with a loud thud. It was a Saturday morning and no one was in the library. Putting her damp hair up in a bun with a pencil, she proceeded to plop down in the chair in front of her and opened a book to read. She was so upset that the words on the page kept blurring together, Aryn needing to read a sentence three or four times before she finally understood what it was talking about._

_After a while, she gave up and pushed the book away from her. She put her arms on the table and rested her head on them, focusing on her breathing._

_Within a few minutes, she heard someone sit across from her. Her head shot up and to her surprise, it was Sherlock. He sat with his hands folded, looking at her expectantly. His eyes were redder than the night prior and the bags had gotten worse._

_“What do you want?” she harshly asked._

_He sat silently._

_She furrowed her brow at him. “Do you expect an apology?”_

_He raised his eyebrows, signaling approval of her question._

_She rolled her eyes. “You’re ridiculous.” She stood up and started to collect her things, preparing to leave Sherlock once again._

_“Why should I be the one to apologize?” he asked, truly dumbfounded by her actions._

_“Sherlock, I have been nothing but cooperative these past few months. I’ve gone out with you at any and all hours of the night to help you cure your boredom while keeping myself caught up in school. Did I expect something in return? No. All I wanted was to be seen as more than just a puppet used to keep you amused.”_

_The statement shocked him slightly. He didn’t know what to say to that. Was she saying she wanted to be his friend?_

_“Good-bye, Sherlock.”_

+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+

“Sorry, I don’t see how that caused you both to become friends.”

The sound of the kettle whistling suddenly interrupted their conversation, Aryn quickly standing up to pull it off of the stove and making them both tea.

“That very night, he found me in the library again. He didn’t say anything, just sat with his books and started to study with me.”

John furrowed his brow as he continued to look at Aryn.

“He did that for a few more nights and then, he started to bring me things.

“First, it was a pencil on one of the nights I had forgotten to bring an extra one for my hair. He didn’t say a word to me, just gave me the pencil and continued his readings. Next few nights, he brought me book after book after book. I never asked him for any of them, he just…brought them. I hadn’t even said a word to him since that ‘good-bye’ I offered him. After the third or fourth round of giving me things, I just had to laugh because it was so obvious that he didn’t know how to apologize like a civil human being.”

“And after that, you both were…friends?”

She nodded. “More or less.”

John shrugged. “Sounds about as weird as a friendship with Sherlock can be.”

Aryn set down a cup of tea on the table for each of them. “Well, I’m sure Sherlock didn’t think you two were such great friends until you got married, am I right?”

John took a sip from his tea and thought about the day he asked Sherlock to be his best man. The shock definitely indicated that Sherlock wasn’t accustomed to being a friend, let alone a best friend for anyone. He nodded in response to Aryn’s question, then leaned back in his chair. “Why are you telling me this?”

Aryn leaned back in her chair as well, her tea still sitting in front of her. “For one thing, you’re a very trustworthy person. I can see why Sherlock puts so much faith in you.” She gave him a half smile before continuing. “And…I feel like someone needs to know about what my relationship with Sherlock is like while this case is going on. My note from whatever mystery person said ‘Welcome to memory lane’. If that’s any indication of what’s to come, someone outside of Sherlock and myself should know something about our lives.”

John nodded. “Back at Scotland Yard, you said you and Sherlock ‘were’ friends. What happened?”

Aryn smirked uncomfortably. Before she could answer, her phone started to buzz. Reaching into her pocket, she saw it was a text from Sherlock.

**Flower Shop.**

**-SH**


	6. Chapter 6

He looked down at the coffee table in front of him, his sleeve rolled up above his elbow. The needle glistened in the dim light that he had in his living room. The door was closed and locked, lest he allow an interruption by Mrs. Hudson. He loved the woman as if she was his mother, but at times she was too much to handle, even for Sherlock.

He kept telling himself he needed it. He told himself he needed the high to help him think clearer with this case. Sherlock knew, though, that once he came down, he’d want more.

Leaning back, he closed his eyes. Thinking hard about his next decision, he thought about what had happened that day with Aryn. It was the first time in years he had come that close with her. The way his heart raced and his protective instinct about her had caused some emotions he hadn’t quite remembered feeling in some time. It scared him to think that there was one more person in his life that he felt that way for. Being protective of people like Aryn and John made him worry for their safety.

A buzz of his phone had him sitting up in a heartbeat.

**$ records?**

**-AKC**

He rolled his eyes. Of course he meant the financial records.

**Yes…**

**-SH**

Another buzz came in not twenty seconds later.

**Meet me at Scotland Yard.**

**-AKC**

He looked back down at the needle again.

**Busy.**

**-SH**

He set down his phone and traded it for the needle. He could see the liquid within, waiting for it to be coursing through his veins, delivering the happy feeling he so desperately desired.

Another buzz.

**It wasn’t a question.**

**-AKC**

Rolling his eyes once again, he set both the needle and his phone back down on the coffee table. He could hear Aryn’s words ringing through his head the first night she found out he was addicted. “How dare you throw away such a beautiful mind with this…”

He thought it was curious that she had called his mind “beautiful”. Most people viewed it as a curse or an annoyance. Then again, even John thought it was amazing that he could make such accurate deductions within seconds. It was his craft, and he was proud of it.

He looked down at the needle once more. Taking a deep breath, he grabbed it and tossed it in to the trash bin next to the couch with frustration. He knew Aryn would be able to tell. He didn’t want to suffer through a lecture from her at this time of night.

Removing the rubber he had tied around his arm and grabbing his coat, he made his way downstairs to the street where he caught a cab to Scotland Yard.

+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+

The boxes were now dumped out on separate sections of the table. The old photographs had been placed into piles on some of the surrounding chairs, and John and Aryn were combing through all of the information, looking for any flower shops that the victims had visited. There were hundreds of transactions to go through, John’s eyes squinting after going through so many lines.

He sat up, his back cracking from slouching so long, and looked over at Aryn. Her face was of pure determination, her fingers running along the pages at a fast pace. He could tell the lead was bringing back her motivation. They finally had something to go on.

At that moment, Sherlock walked in. He tossed his coat on one of the chairs and looked at John in confusion. “What are you doing here?”

“I was with Aryn when you texted.”

“Why were you with Aryn?”

“Better question would be: where were you?” Aryn responded dryly, still going through the records.

He ignored her, still focusing on John. “Well, did you find anything?”

John sighed, looking at the stacks of paper they had yet to go through. “Not yet. I honestly wish Donovan had just let us have full access to the records on a computer.”

“Well, she doesn’t trust me. Even if I said ‘please’, she’d still ignore my request,” Aryn informed, standing up straight to relieve the strain on her back. She looked at Sherlock who was still facing John. “You’re more than welcome to help.”

He looked at her with a matter-of-fact type expression. There were so many things he wanted to say. A million smart-aleck replies ran through his mind, but for some reason none of them came out. He just stood in silence, staring at Aryn.

Rolling her eyes, she continued looking through the stack she had started with.

John looked up at Sherlock in amazement. Snapping his fingers in front of Sherlock’s face, he couldn’t help but wonder what Aryn had to tell him regarding how their friendship ended. It would be quite the story as far as he could tell.

Sherlock’s gaze slowly returned to John.

“A little help would be nice,” John repeated.

Sherlock sighed as he walked over to a stack opposite of John and sat down, bringing some of the papers into his lap to look through.

Silence took over the group, the tension growing. Their only lead was sitting somewhere on these pages just waiting to be found. The seconds that went by felt like minutes, the minutes like hours. Paper after paper, the trio had barely made a dent.

Aryn looked up at the other two, getting an idea of where they were in terms of progress. She noted that Sherlock’s left sleeve was rolled up higher than usual and there was a mark where something had been tied tightly around his arm. She rolled her eyes in frustration. Letting out an exasperated sigh, she tossed her next completed page on her “finished” pile and rubbed her eyes.

“It’s no use,” John stated, taking a step back from where he was working. “We’ll be at it for days.”

“And this killer is still on the loose,” Sherlock reminded, his eyes the only portion of him that suggested he was talking to John. He brought them back to the pages in front of him. “We’re on their time right now.”

Aryn started to go through the records in front of her once again. Supermarket, supermarket, theatre, coffee shop, department store – nothing.

Suddenly, as if jumping out in front of her like a sign from God, she saw it: Sue Henderson’s Flower Shoppe.

In an excited manner, she rushed to grab a highlighter from her bag and made a bright yellow streak across the paper. She noted the date. The day this victim went to the flower shop was the day before they were found dead. Looking at the next person’s pile, she skipped to the date in question and scanned the page.

Bingo.

“The victims visited Sue Henderson’s Flower Shoppe the day before they were found dead.”

“So they were killed the same day they were there,” John finished.

Both men were looking through the piles with more purpose than before, also finding records for each victim as to when they visited the shop. Every person had bought 7 roses the day they died. As they found the records, they tacked them up on the board next to the victim’s profiles.

“We should tell Lestrade,” Aryn decided, pulling out her phone and dialing his number.

At the same time, Sherlock’s phone buzzed with a text. He looked at it, then groaned, standing up and beginning to pace.

“What?” John asked, both he and Aryn pausing to take in Sherlock’s reaction.

“The shop is closed.”

“Closed? How do you know—“

“Homeless network. Please keep up,” Sherlock snapped, taking Aryn by surprise with his tone. “Police just cleaned out the place because of suspected fraud.”

“At a flower shop?” John asked in disbelief. “You can’t honestly think—“

“He’s right,” Lestrade said from the doorway. Looking at each confused face intently, he continued, “If you were having a party in here, you should have invited everyone.”

Aryn put her phone back into her pocket as she looked at her senior officer. Looking down at the stacks, her frustration grew. They had gained and lost a lead in matter of minutes, bringing them back to square one. Out of anger, she shoved her stack of papers off of the table and grabbed her coat, storming out.

Lestrade sighed as he looked back at John and Sherlock, unsure of what to do next.

+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+

Being at Hyde Park at one in the morning wasn’t on her list of to-dos for that day. She needed to get away and think. Sherlock’s reaction to her had put her off originally and now they were left at another dead end. There were probably more commonalities to look though in those financial records, but as John had said, it would take days. They didn’t have that kind of time anymore.

Looking around at the patch of grass she was on, she remembered bringing Sherlock to that park one night after going out on a case. He was frustrated beyond belief because crucial evidence had been destroyed. She wanted to take his mind off of things and calm him down.

+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+

_“I don’t see why we’re here,” he said through gritted teeth, sitting on a bench next to Aryn and looking at the large body of water before them._

_“You need to cool off,” she stated, leaning back and sharing the view._

_Sherlock folded his arms like a young child who had just gone through a temper tantrum. The case was going to take much longer to solve now that they had lost one of their most important leads, and now Aryn was doing something foolish like taking him to a park._

_The last few months had been better than when they had first started. Sherlock took more of Aryn’s suggestions into account, although he still ignored them most of the time. She had been great at helping him collect data and had proven to be a good companion._

_Now that Sherlock thought about it though, she had proven herself to be much more than a good companion. She was fantastic. She appreciated his deductions and had called his mind brilliant. No matter how many times he pushed her away, she’d always find her way back into his life. Even though he was against it at first, he was grateful that there was someone other than his brother looking out for his wellbeing._

_He never told her how much he appreciated her, though._

_After a while of silence, Aryn asked, “Do you think love exists, Sherlock?”_

_His eyes went wide and he suddenly grew very uncomfortable. Shifting his weight on the bench, he declined to answer. Continuing to stare out at the water, he thought about where this was coming from. He did note that Aryn’s roommate, Thalia, had just started to have a steady boyfriend. There was no doubt in his mind that he was spending his nights at their dorm, which was why Aryn was so willing to go out at a moment’s notice._

_She looked down at her feet as she continued, “Maybe the better question would be: do you think there’s love out there for everyone?_

_“Because, I mean…my sister’s been with her boyfriend for quite some time, but my mum hasn’t seen my dad in years. She’s never really even mentioned anything about him. She’s never had a boyfriend either.”_

_He was worried that if he said anything at that point, she’d stop talking. She’d never opened up about anything personal before. Between the two of them, it had been strictly professional._

_“Personally, I’ve always thought love was a waste of time,” she continued, staring out across the water once more. Turning to face him, she asked, “Sherlock?”_

_Clearing his throat in discomfort, he said, “Well…I’ve never understood the idea of being in love aside from whatever example my parents had been for me growing up. I find that I will probably never have time for it. I’m married to this life.”_

_She nodded. “Maybe if I get married someday, it’ll be to someone with a lot of heart. And hopefully someone with a strong mind.”_

_He shifted uncomfortably once more. “When do you suppose you’ll meet a man like that?”_

_She shrugged. “I don’t.” Looking at him with slight hurt in her eyes, she finished, “But it’s nice to dream, isn’t it?”_

+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+

“Aryn?” she heard someone call.

Wiping the tears away from her face quickly, she turned to see John walking towards her.

“John? What’re you doing here?”

“Sherlock said I might find you here.”

She nodded. “Well, here I am.” She couldn’t help but be disappointed that it wasn’t Sherlock that had come to find her. “I just wanted to come and clear my head. Kind of threw a fit back there.”

“Yeah, you did,” John confirmed, sitting next to Aryn. “Maybe it’s best that you go home and get some shut eye. We’ll need you fresh for tomorrow if anything else happens.”

+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+

Coming in to work bright and early, Aryn went directly to the meeting room. She saw that the records had been cleaned up, the common purchases highlighted and put onto the boards. Lestrade was sitting down, staring at the cup of coffee in his hand.

“Long night, old man?” she teased, sitting next to him.

“Well, cleaning up after a toddler’s temper tantrum can be quite exhausting.”

She looked down at the table in guilt. “Sorry…”

He waved it off. After a few moments of silence he said, “I’m sorry for bringing you into all this.” He looked up at all of the information before him. “It’s such a mess. And I’m guessing I’ve ripped open old wounds between you and Sherlock.”

She shook her head. “It’s not a problem. I told you I’d be here to help when you needed me. I felt kind of glad to be back by your side again, to be honest,” she admitted, looking up at Lestrade.

Looking down at her, it was as if he was looking at his own daughter. He watched her grow into the young woman she was, and he honestly felt very proud of her. They had always been close, even from her first day on the job. He made sure he attended her graduation from the academy as well as every promotion ceremony she went through.

“It’s so frustrating,” she commented out of nowhere, leaning back in her chair. She could feel the tears welling up as they had the night before. Turning her head to Lestrade, she asked, “Did I make the wrong decision?”

He sighed as he wrapped his arm around her, Aryn leaning her head on Lestrade’s shoulder. He had learned that when she asked a question like that, it was best to not say anything. She needed to let out whatever emotions she had pent up within her. She wasn’t one to let her feelings out verbally. She let them build up until she exploded.

Sherlock watched the exchange from the doorway, his thought processes the same as Lestrade’s. There had been times where Aryn had taken out her frustrations on him, snapping at him at throwing books around. It was annoying to him, but after a while he learned how to cope with it. He let her get her frustrations out and then he’d distract her with a case.

When he’d get frustrated, she’d do something similar for him. It usually involved going to Hyde Park and Aryn rambling about something Sherlock usually didn’t care about. He liked it, though. He’d indulge her in some facts about his life every once in a while, but for the most part he learned a lot about her.

He shook his head, trying to remove whatever reminiscent thoughts he had about Aryn out of his head. The past was meant to stay in the past for a reason.

Clearing his throat, he walked in.

Lestrade looked up at the doorway and noted Sherlock’s entrance. He removed his arm from around Aryn’s shoulders as he stood up. “I’m gonna go find John and see if he’s found anything else with the records.”

After a few moments, he was gone leaving Aryn and Sherlock alone in the room once again.

There was a long silence, indicating to Aryn that their exchange the day before had been a one-time thing. It was uncomfortable and deafening.

Wiping the tears away from her face, she continued to stare at the table in front of her. “How long were you there?”

Sherlock looked down at this shoes, then back up towards the boards. “Long enough.”

She nodded. “Typical ‘Sherlock’ answer.”

He rolled his eyes at her sass as he walked over to the table where Aryn was sitting. He wanted to tell her that what happened the day before was nothing. He wanted to lie to her and tell her there wasn’t anything he wanted to really talk to her about. Her frustration from the night prior was still lingering, though. He could feel it.


	7. Chapter 7

Aryn, John, and Sherlock took a cab together to the next crime scene. It had been almost a month with no new leads. On top of that, things hadn’t been going any better between Sherlock and Aryn. He made it a point to either shoot down any suggestions she had or just ignored her completely. After a while, she became numb to the treatment. It was like they were back in college once more. It was as if they had just started over.

John felt very uneasy about the situation. He felt torn between having to help Sherlock with the case and also helping Aryn with the case. They were going about it from two very different directions, but they were both arriving at the same conclusions. He didn’t want it to appear as if he was taking sides with anyone.

Lestrade had already left, leaving the three of them time to gather whatever information they needed prior to heading out.

The cab ride was long and quiet. John and Sherlock sat on one seat and Aryn sat on the other. She stared out the window the entire time while Sherlock stared at Aryn. It was peculiar behavior for John to witness. When he had gone in to Lestrade’s office to tell them both that there had been another body, there was something uncomfortable about the mood in the room. It was a heavy feeling that he walked in on. He meant to talk about it with Sherlock later.

Pulling up to the building in question, the three of them climbed out of the cab and walked around the back where Lestrade was waiting for them. His face was grave, as if had just seen a ghost.

“How old?” Sherlock asked, pushing past the DI.

Lestrade didn’t answer him, causing Sherlock to turn around to face him. “How old?” he repeated.

Aryn looked at Lestrade with a worried expression. He looked up at her with sorrow in his eyes.

Rushing past him, she saw the sheet that covered the body. It was very small, no more than three feet long. Her heart sank.

Turning to John, she said, “Maybe it’s best that you don’t go back there.”

John looked at her with a puzzled look. “Why not?”

Aryn’s gaze pleaded with John, but he wasn’t having any of it. He walked around her and followed Sherlock to the scene.

The baby couldn’t have been more than two months old. After pulling the sheet off of it, he immediately began to get choked up. When he looked down at that infant, he imagined his own unborn child. The dangers of the job he was doing immediately haunted him once more, his mind traveling back to Mary. He stood up and walked away from the scene, trying to collect his thoughts.

Sherlock walked over to the child and replaced John, looking over the wound as well as noting the placement. This one was carefully done once more, the baby holding the rose between its small hands. The wound was just as precise and the rose was fully bloomed, its fragrance wafting up to tickle Sherlock’s nose. Looking over at Aryn and John, he noted their reactions.

He walked back over to Lestrade and asked, “How long before we can get an autopsy report?”

“For Christ’s sake, Sherlock,” Lestrade groaned, “have some decency. We don’t even know who the parents are let alone why this kid is even here.”

“I’ll have some decency when this killer is caught. I want an autopsy done as soon as possible before we lose any more time.”

Sherlock didn’t wait for a response from Lestrade. He walked towards John, his sensitivity towards the situation at an all-time low. “I don’t see what all the fuss is about. It’s just another body.”

John turned to face Sherlock and gave him a deadly glare.

Sherlock, confused, flicked his eyes from John to Aryn. “Not good?” he mouthed to her.

She rolled her eyes in disgust, as she announced, “I’m going back to Scotland Yard.” She knew that he knew better than to make a comment like that.

Sherlock noted the glazed look she had her in eyes before she left. They were haunted by what she had just seen. Being a DI, he figured that there would be times that she would be able to cast aside any and all biases in order to handle a case.

Walking away from the duo, she could hear John lecturing Sherlock about his comments and how he needed to be more careful about what he said in certain situations. She knew that Sherlock’s priorities had his mind roaming elsewhere, John’s speech somewhat going to waste.

+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+

He sat alone in Lestrade’s office, waiting for some scrap of news. Lestrade was out trying to find the baby’s parents, John was home with Mary, and Aryn was with Donovan also trying to look for information about the victim’s parents. He was in his usual position, hands formed into a steeple as they rested on his lips.

Aryn’s reaction today was one he had seen only one time before. It was a dark time during Aryn’s college career and one that, even Sherlock would admit, was scarring.

+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+

_Thalia had been gone for a few days which had bothered Aryn. She was so distracted with the notion that it was leaking into her case work._

_“Ryn?” he called out to her, Aryn daydreaming into the file she was supposed to be analyzing._

_“Huh?” she replied. Sherlock’s expectant expression was glaring at her. Shaking her head, she said, “Sorry…”_

_He leaned back, looking over her tired features and her shaking hand. “She still hasn’t come back.”_

_She shook her head once more. “It’s been five days and no phone call.”_

_It was unusual. Whenever Thalia would stay the night at someone else’s place, she’d always tell Aryn, just to be on the safe side. Thalia had always said that if anything were to happen to her, she could count on Aryn to save her. This confidence made Aryn uneasy as each day passed. Should she be looking for her? Where would she even begin?_

_Sherlock leaned back on Aryn’s bed frame as he set the photos he was looking at to the side. Now that they were closer, he had started to pop in to her dorm to look over information. Aryn was completely fine with the arrangement, happy to not have to keep going into the boys’ dormitories to see what she and Sherlock needed to do. It was awkward having to walk past all of those males in their natural habitat: some shirtless, some fresh from athletic practices, and some on the prowl for that evening’s date. Sherlock had had to save her on more than one occasion by weaving a tale that Aryn was his girlfriend._

_The first time he had done that, the story was awkward – only a fool would have believed their lie and luckily, it was a fool that was listening. After that, the story came out a lot smoother and much more believable, especially with Sherlock learning more and more about Aryn as time went on._

_He stood up and walked over to her phone and dialed out to an important contact._

_Aryn watched as his face went from normal to concerned to surprised within seconds._

_He set down the receiver and walked slowly back to where he had been sitting._

_She had been lying on the bed, stretched out and awaiting his return. “Is everything okay?”_

_“Grab your coat,” he replied. “We have a scene to look at.”_

_…_

_He regretted taking her as soon as he saw her reaction._

_Thalia’s body had to have been there for at least three days. For the first time, he saw Aryn become truly speechless. Her eyes glossed over with a mixture of fear and sadness. Her breaths had become unsteady as she dropped to her knees. Her heart felt like it had stopped beating._

_Her best friend was dead._

_She should have went to look for her sooner. The first night that Thalia didn’t come back, Aryn should have done something. She should have called around to find out if anyone knew where she and her boyfriend had gone. It was her fault._

_“Don’t think like that. You couldn’t have done anything even if you knew where she was,” Sherlock had said to her. He felt as if he could read her thoughts. They were written all over her face as she processed what was presented in front of her._

_Immediately she was on her feet, walking up to Sherlock. “One of my best friends is dead and that’s how you choose to comfort me?” Tears pushed against her eyes like water against a dam. Her sadness mixed with frustration as her steps grew quicker. Without warning, she slapped him clear across the face._

_She didn’t know why she did it. Maybe it was Sherlock’s lack of empathy that sent her over the edge. Maybe it was the adrenaline that was pumping through her veins as her mind went into an overloaded state. Whatever it was, she had had enough for one night._

_He stood in astonishment not only because of the blow he received, but also because of Aryn’s words. He knew that the only two people she spent time with on a daily basis were Thalia and himself. She had said ‘one of my best friends’._

_…_

_During the two weeks after, Sherlock didn’t return to Aryn’s dorm. Aryn didn’t even know where Sherlock was. She went to visit him at his dorm and his roommate said he hadn’t been back for several days._

_Not again._

_She was awkwardly stuck between a sense of panic and a feeling of not caring. She needed someone to be there for her and right now she was alone. For the last week, she had pretty much lived in the library. Distracting herself with loads of schoolwork, Aryn didn’t even give herself time to mourn. She remembered the school counselor contacting her about what had happened, but Aryn ignored the invitation to “discuss how she may be feeling during this rough time”. She actively avoided being in her own dorm, its emptiness a painful reminder of what she had lost._

_One night, after the library had closed, she was walking across one of the lawns back to her dorm. Not looking where she was going, she ran into someone. Her books fell all over the grass and she landed on her back. She went from staring down at the blades of grass she was about to step on to gazing up at the stars overhead._

_A million white dots graced the dark sky above. It was a beautiful, serene sight, until a familiar face stood over her._

_“It was her boyfriend,” he informed, reaching his hand down to Aryn to help her up._

_She was confused, standing up straight and brushing the grass off of her back and turning to look at their surroundings. “What? Where were you? What do you mean it was her boyfriend?”_

_Sherlock shrugged and sighed as he walked around Aryn. “It was her boyfriend. That’s who killed her.”_

_The tension fell from her shoulders. She felt truly defeated. The person who hurt Thalia had been right under her own nose, staying at her dorm for so many nights with the two of them. If she hadn’t been spending so much time with Sherlock, she would have probably seen the signs earlier. It wasn’t fair to blame Sherlock, though. It was all on her._

_“He’s been arrested. Saw to it myself.”_

_Turning to face Sherlock, her face spoke a million words that never left her lips. Her glassy eyes were fixed upon his, her posture slightly slouched and her arms dangling weakly at her sides. Her books were getting wet with the dew that sat on the grass around her, but she didn’t care._

_He finally looked up at her. As they locked gazes, a familiar tightness returned to his chest—the same tightness he had when he had embraced her for the first time on that rooftop. It felt like it happened so long ago. That closeness caused him to feel unfamiliar emotions that frightened him. Thinking back to all that they had been through together, it wasn’t a surprise that he felt so many sentiments for this girl; someone to care for and someone who’d care for him. Having a friend was a luxury for Sherlock that he wasn’t sure he wanted to afford. But looking at Aryn now, he cast away those thoughts and set aside his usual robotic tactics._

_To Aryn, his gaze suddenly looked so much more sympathetic than the day they had found Thalia’s body. Her heart felt like it broke into a thousand pieces. For once, she saw him exhibit true emotion. His blue eyes were like crystal pools; they were vibrant and looked at her as if it was the first time he had truly seen her as a colleague—as his friend._

_Walking back towards Aryn, he stood toe-to-toe with her. He wasn’t sure how to comfort someone who had experienced so much pain. After a small pause, he softly whispered, “I’m sorry.” He placed his hands behind his back, his body tense and uncertain._

_Aryn was surprised by this string of events. It was a side of Sherlock she, and maybe anyone else, had never seen._

_She sighed deeply and closed her eyes. Tears began to stream down her face, Sherlock’s actions bringing her to the edge of her emotional capacity. Never, in her wildest dreams, did she think he’d extend that amount of kindness and effort towards her. Out of nowhere, she wrapped her arms around his waist in an embrace._

_He was in disbelief. His body tensed up. She cried heavily into his chest. The muffled cries were much greater than the ones she had shown him the night that he saved her from falling off of that building._

_Aryn never cried out openly to Sherlock, even when she had first found out Thalia had died. Tears may have escaped her face, but she would never allow more than that. Seeing her cry now, hearing the pain that laced each and every breath and gasp, he realized that she was broken — a mere shadow of the strong person he had met the previous semester._

_He tentatively placed his arms around her, pulling her closer to him. More sobs escaped the small body he had brought in, causing him to hold her much tighter in an almost protective way. Resting his head gingerly on hers, he became intoxicated by the combination of the sweet scent of her perfume as well as her favorite shampoo. Her bun had fallen out of place and her hair was flowing freely in the breeze that blew past the two as they stood planted like trees in the middle of the yard._

_He closed his eyes as he pressed his lips to the top of her head. He brought his hand up to the base of her neck, his fingers nestling themselves in her brown locks._

_Her grip tightened as she poured her soul into Sherlock, unable to find any more words to express not only her sadness, but her appreciation for what he had done._


	8. Chapter 8

“Sherlock?” he heard a voice call out to him.

His eyes opened suddenly, pulling him out of the dreamy state he was in. He looked around, seeing the office was still empty aside from Aryn who was standing at the doorway.

“You alright?” she asked.

“Fine. Just fine,” he stated, standing up and buttoning his suit jacket. “Any news?”

“Unfortunately, no,” she said, looking at the floor. “The parents are nowhere to be found—Greg’s guess is that the child was put up for adoption.” She turned her head from side to side, stretching her neck. It had been many hours of going over files, searching through databases, and listening to Donovan complain about how much time was being wasted on this case. At times, Aryn wondered why Donovan was even there if she was this frustrated with how things were being run.

“More useless information then,” he spat, flopping back down on the chair he was just in. He pondered for a moment. “It can’t be this hard.”

She scoffed slightly, causing Sherlock to look up at her. “Something funny?”

“You,” she immediately answered. “So hung up on a puzzle you can’t solve.”

It wasn’t meant to be a mean jab. It wasn’t any different than how she would have spoken to him in college. Sherlock wasn’t amused.

He stood up once more and pushed past Aryn, heading back to the meeting room where he found Greg, Anderson, Donovan, and John discussing the child and its circumstances.

“It doesn’t fit, though,” Anderson was saying as Sherlock walked in. “It’s not like this baby has anything to do with the pattern. What if it’s just a copycat trying to throw us off of the trail?”

“Specific details haven’t been released to the media,” Lestrade informed.

“You’d need to have a leak in the department for something like this to get out,” Donovan finished as Aryn walked in.

“Just got these in from Molly,” she announced, flipping open the files in her hands. “Baby boy was two months old, COD was the stab wound, big surprise. Tests on the rose didn’t find anything, just like with the previous victims.”

It was an understatement to say that everyone in the room was frustrated with the direction that this case was going. More paths opened themselves up just to lead to three or four new dead ends. It was impossible.

Sherlock stood at the boards trying to inventory any information he hadn’t already collected in his mind. His anger with Aryn still carried over, his temper unusually sensitive that day. All it would take would be one more little round of sarcasm to send him over the edge. Cases like these were challenges he enjoyed, but only if there was a solution in sight.

Turning on his heel, he began to walk out of the room without saying a word to anyone. It was another great Sherlock mystery as to where he was going. Aryn was sick of it.

“Where are you going now? We need you here Sherlock—you can’t just leave,” she angrily scolded.

He stopped dead in his tracks. Turning to face Aryn, who was now standing on the side of the table, he took long strides towards her, analyzing her from top to bottom.

At one point in their lives, he had promised to never use deductions openly to tell her what her life was like or explain to others what she was like. She had witnessed this ability many times and had told him she hated the way it made people feel. His methods let out peoples’ biggest fears and insecurities, knowing that they were secrets for a reason.

Unfortunately, the only way Sherlock knew how to shut people up was to shoot them where it would hurt most.

“Of course you’d want me to stay here where we would make no progress,” he began, his words clear as they started to pour out at a quick rate, “because it’s so obvious that we’re going to get all of the answers together, correct?

“A successful DI like you might not want to be able to work on a case such as this right now. You could leave any time you wanted, really. Correct me if I’m wrong—judging by the tan mark on your ring finger, you’ve got someone waiting at home, don’t you?”

Aryn’s expression dropped suddenly. She looked quickly from face to face in the room, her eyes finally settling on John’s. They were etched with a fear he had never seen, as if she had been betrayed.

“You’re also having family problems at home as well. Your mother must be getting on your case as to why you’re not marrying yet which is why you ran off so suddenly to London. Putting off the wedding because you’re getting cold feet I imagine?

“But wait…it must be hard knowing your sister is putting pressure on you, isn’t it? Judging by the photos in your wallet, your niece and nephew are just stealing the show and adding to your mother’s notions to marry and have a family with this mystery groom. At our age, though, it’s understandable. Your numerous missed calls and texts from her must be getting a tad bit annoying, especially with this case.”

“Sherlock, that’s enough,” John interrupted. His gaze never left Aryn’s, it being some kind of lifeline so that she wouldn’t drown in the sudden deductions Sherlock was drowning her in.

“Seeing that child the other day must not have put you at ease either. With Thalia gone already, how many of these deaths are you seeing as your fault once again?

“But the real kicker? Your depression.”

Aryn’s eyes finally left John’s as she looked up at Sherlock, begging him to stop.

“You eat very little when you decide to actually eat, you rarely partake in any activities, prefer to live alone, and the scars on your wrists poorly hidden with makeup indicate attempts at ending your life. Not happy with the way your life is going? Aryn, Aryn, Aryn—why are you hiding so much from us?”

“That’s enough Sherlock,” Lestrade growled as he stepped forward towards the consulting detective.

Her heart caught in her throat as she tensed up. The room was silent aside from Sherlock’s deep breathing. Her fists were clenched so tightly, she could feel the nails digging into her flesh.

Sherlock glanced around the room at each face as he took a deep breath to collect himself. He turned to leave, but a voice caught his attention.

“You’re wrong.”

Looking at Aryn, he was perplexed. “What?”

“Your deductions—all but one are wrong.”

He cocked his head as he walked towards this small woman who was looking at him now with ferocious eyes.

She stepped towards him, meeting him toe-to-toe.

“Yes, I’ve been depressed and I haven’t told anyone, but your reasons aren’t even close to the right justification. I keep photos of my niece and nephew in my wallet not because my sister is putting pressure on me to get on with my life but because they were killed in a car crash along with my sister and mum two years ago.”

She glared at Sherlock with a fire that had been burning for years.

John looked cautiously from Lestrade to the duo in the middle of the room.

“You missed their funeral, Sherlock.” She walked around him to face the door. “It was the one time in the last 10 years that I had tried to find you again. When I did and when I needed you to be there, you never showed.” She turned to face him once more. “I have no family left, Sherlock. Dad left when I was young and now everyone else has suddenly up and vanished. Getting out of Manchester was my way of being able to see what I could accomplish if I started back where I was familiar, where I had people who cared.”

She pulled a chain that was around her neck, breaking the clasp and grasping something in her hand. “Oh, and my ‘engagement’? The furthest thing from the truth.” Looking down at her palm, she continued, “This you can have back.” She tossed the ring at Sherlock, the silver band bouncing off of his chest and both it and the chain clattering to the floor.

She stormed out, not waiting for anyone to add to their argument nor allowing Sherlock to bite back with whatever remark he had waiting for her. It was around five in the afternoon and she headed straight for the pub down the street.

Everyone stared at the door wondering what had just happened.

Sherlock’s expression remained unchanged, his gaze settling on the ring that was on the floor. His heart was racing at the sight of it, unable to process the fact that not only had she kept it, but she had been wearing it this whole time they had been apart.

Anderson and Donovan were the first to leave, giving Sherlock a mixture of puzzled yet satisfied looks as they exited.

Lestrade walked over to him as if he were a disappointed father. Looking down at the ring, he angrily stated, “You fix this, or I’ll make sure you never solve another crime in England again.” He stormed out, heading back to his office to try and find Aryn.

That left only John and Sherlock in the room. John wasn’t sure where to start. It was amazing that Sherlock got a majority of his deductions wrong, for once. What followed was probably even more shocking than anything John would have ever imagined.

He walked over to Sherlock and grabbed the ring and chain off of the floor. He took Sherlock’s hand and placed both in his palm.

Sherlock watched John, then looked at him with confused eyes.

“I’ll find her. But Greg’s right; you need to fix this.”

+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+

John had checked her flat and every pub he could think of that was in close proximity with both Scotland Yard and Aryn’s place. His last option was to check Hyde Park. It was now nine o’clock at night and he was starting to worry about his colleague.

Walking through, he saw a variety of people ranging from young couples out on dates to groups of kids enjoying their night out before curfew. The amount of people that weren’t there by themselves made it painfully easy to pick Aryn out of the crowd.

She was sitting on a bench on the far end of the park, overlooking the water.

He didn’t know how to approach her. So much had happened in the last day that he didn’t know what she’d be like. As he walked over, he mentally prepared himself for the worst.

Upon first look, she seemed fine. The strong smell of whiskey cleared those thoughts out of John’s head very quickly, though.

“Aryn?” he said, announcing his presence.

She chuckled slightly, her gaze still on the scene in front of her. “Cocky git, isn’t he?”

Sitting next to her and sharing the view, he said, “Yes. Yes he is.”

She sniffed. “I’m guessing you have questions.” Her words were slightly slurred.

He nodded, now looking over at her. Aryn’s eyes were red as was her nose. Her hair was let down which was a new sight for John. It acted as a curtain against her face.

“How did it end?”

+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+

_Thalia’s friends had been trying to get Aryn to agree to go to this dance for the past month. It was the last hurrah for all of the students who were going to graduate. As much as she appreciated the thought of them including her in their plans now that Thalia was gone, she was not one to entertain the idea of going to a dance._

_From what she gathered, it was supposed to be very formal and people brought dates with them—it was a college version of a high school dance in her eyes._

_Venting about it to Sherlock, she figured that after ten minutes of her rambling, he’d have stopped listening._

_“So are you going?” he asked a while after she had stopped talking. They were in his dorm getting ready to go out to look for evidence._

_She looked up at him, surprised that he cared enough to ask. “Um…wasn’t thinking about it.”_

_He nodded understandingly, Aryn slightly disappointed._

_Since the night that she had exposed her soul to him, things had continued as normal between the two of them—at least externally they had._

_Aryn was very conflicted within the confines of her mind. She had thought that something clicked with them that night. She thought she had reached out enough to Sherlock to make more of an impression on him. Alas, it was just a means to being much closer friends. To her, it seemed that was all it would ever be._

_There had been one night where she was sitting alone in her dorm reading. She felt very distracted, Sherlock having left a few hours prior to rest and dig deeper about something he was helping a friend with. She remembered setting the book down and staring up at the ceiling, trying really hard to look for Thalia beyond the boundaries of her dorm room. She looked as if she was trying to look towards the heavens for her friend._

_“Well, it finally happened,” she remembered telling Thalia. “Lia, I like him. I finally like a guy and he’s a nut.” She laughed to herself, looking down at the book in her lap. “And I have no idea what to do.” Sighing, she continued, “What I wouldn’t give to have you here with me right now…”_

_Little did she know, Sherlock had returned that night; he was just outside of Aryn’s door when she had confessed her feelings for him to the empty room. He didn’t dare enter after hearing what she had said. He let it go for the time being, but knew that it would become something to address later._

_The dance was to take place the night prior to graduation, both Sherlock and Aryn preparing for their commencement. It wasn’t something they talked about a lot. Knowing that graduation was that much closer meant that they were counting down the days until they’d have to go their separate ways._

_As they left his dorm, Aryn wondered how many more adventures the two of them would have together before they had their last “hurrah” as friends. She dreaded the thought._

_…_

_The night of the dance, Sherlock was nowhere to be found. Aryn was stuck packing up her dorm with no one to keep her company. Most of Thalia’s belongings had been packed up by her family and Aryn was left to look through old photos and random things she and Thalia had collected over the years. They were fortunate enough to be roommates throughout the duration of their collegiate careers._

_She stretched, standing up and rubbing her stomach. She hadn’t eaten all day and figured it was better to go out and buy food rather than bringing home leftovers. She ran down to a local sandwich shop, got a light dinner, then came back to her dorm._

_As she was eating, she walked to her bed and saw a white box sitting on her covers. There was a note attached to it._

_Setting her sandwich down, she grabbed the note and unfolded it._

Hyde Park. 8pm. Wear this. –SH

_She had to admit, her curiosity was piqued. She put the note down and proceeded to lift the cover off of the box. A beautiful black gown sat within layers of tissue paper. She was in awe as she pulled it out. It was strapless and floor length, appearing to be just her height. She didn’t expect any less from Sherlock, though. He probably knew her height and measurements without her having to tell him._

_Looking at her watch, it was already 7:15. She rushed to shower, put the dress on, and searched for a pair of black heels to prevent the dress from dragging on the ground. In the box was a shawl to drape over her shoulders. She quickly grabbed that and frantically ran around her dorm trying to finish getting ready with whatever she hadn’t already packed. Thalia had given her a make-up set at the beginning of the semester and taught her how to use it, Thalia somehow thinking that Aryn would have time to find a boyfriend to use it for. As she applied the make-up, she felt confident thinking that this was a way Thalia could be with her for moral support._

_As she finished, she grabbed her keys, locked her dorm, and rushed down to catch a cab to the park._

_…_

_Sherlock stood looking down at the setup he had, unsatisfied with the arrangement. It was a simple blanket on the grass that had a small black box on it along with his violin case. He also had a tape recorder set to play a song he had been practicing for the past few weeks._

_It was an odd feeling trying to do something nice for someone. Although, he had to attribute all of this to what he had heard from Aryn that one night. She liked him—as more than a friend—and he had no idea how to handle it. He observed a variety of romantic acts at the college, but they never mattered to him until now. He had always been married to his work. Suddenly he had someone who shared a passion for the work he did and he found it all didn’t seem as important anymore. What did matter was ensuring that he spent time with Aryn before they graduated the next day._

_He felt eyes watching him. Looking up, he saw her standing on the path that lead to where he was standing. She was in her gown, the shawl gracing her pale shoulders. The lamplight overhead didn’t do any justice to her face. She had just the right amount of blush and wine colored lipstick. They were what stood out to Sherlock the most. Her hair was in a neat bun, although he found he much preferred her hair down after that night on the lawn._

_Uncomfortably straightening out his coat, he gestured at the blanket. “Surprise,” he said._

_She giggled as she looked at the spread before her, walking through the grass and making sure her shoes didn’t get stuck in the soft ground. “What is all of this for, Sherlock?”_

_He knelt down and grabbed his case, fiddling with the latches. “I figured…” He opened the case cover. “…that since we only have tonight to spend before we graduate…” He grabbed his violin and set it very precisely between his chin and body “…I’d do something nice in return for you.”_

_She removed her shoes and sat on the blanket next to where Sherlock had left his case open. “For doing what?”_

_He paused as he was about to set his bow on the strings. “For being…a friend.”_

_With that, he began to play the most beautiful violin piece Aryn had ever heard. So many wonderful notes strung together at the right pace. It enhanced the night air that surrounded them. She could hear some tones of sadness, but most of the song was happy. The song made her feel as if it was Sherlock’s way of expressing himself. He never needed words, just his violin._

_He watched out of the corner of his eye as she swayed slightly with the rhythm of his music._

_As the song came to an end, Aryn clapped excitedly for the man who was now bowing for his accomplishment._

_“That was great,” she added, watching Sherlock put the violin back down to rest in its case._

_“Thank you. And now…” he began, grabbing the black box, “…put this on and dance with me.”_

_He held it out to her and she had frozen as she stared at it. It was a small box that was covered in the fine velvet one would see on high end jewelry boxes. She reached for it cautiously, slowly opening the lid. Within, there was a silver band. There wasn’t anything special to distinguish it from anything else. Just a simple silver band._

_Pulling it out of the box, she inspected the inside. There was no inscription, just her initials “A.K.C.”_

_“Wh-wh-what is this for?” she asked, looking up at Sherlock._

_“I wanted to get you something nice. I noticed you never really wear earrings or necklaces so I figured a ring would be more suitable for an everyday accessory.”_

_“Sherlock,” she said, more directly than what she had asked previously, “what is this for?”_

_He kept eye contact with her briefly before walking towards the water that had been his company for several hours that night as he prepared for Aryn’s arrival. “I’m told it’s something like a promise ring.”_

_“Oh?” she asked, standing up and walking to Sherlock’s side. “And what is the promise we’re to keep?”_

_“Our…friendship,” he replied quickly, thinking back to the night he eavesdropped on her confession. “You’ve been an excellent…” He paused, trying to find the word._

_“…friend?” she asked, wondering how many people before her had been able to have the title of being Sherlock’s friend._

_“Yes. That.” He walked back to the blanket and kneeled down towards the tape recorder, pressing the ‘play’ button. “And now, we dance.”_

_“Dance?” She looked nervously around at the people who were at the park. “Here?”_

_He too looked around, slightly baffled. “Something wrong?”_

_She laughed to herself, realizing that Sherlock would find nothing weird about the situation. Slipping the ring on her finger, she replied, “Nothing. I’d love to dance with you.”_

_She walked over to him, Sherlock already in position to dance. He held out his hand for her to take and reached his other for her waist. She placed her right hand on his shoulder, her left hand in his, and they began to waltz. At the beginning, she felt ridiculous, people beginning to watch them from afar. As the music continued, though, she noticed how well Sherlock could dance. He would spin her around, tip her backwards, and bring her back in very fluid motions. Had he been practicing?_

_The longer they danced, the more their dancing style began to change. From the stiff, formal dance they began with, Sherlock eased into a more relaxed pace, the space between himself and Aryn closing. Their long steps changed into a simple sway back and forth. Aryn placed both of her hands on his shoulders and both of his hands were on her waist._

_“Sherlock,” she had said halfway through. She looked up at his eyes that looked more vibrant than ever. They were curious, wanting to drink in every word that she was going to say. “Thank you…for everything. I’m going to miss you.” She paused as tears began to roll down her cheeks. “In all honesty, I’m not sure what I’m going to do without you. I’ve gotten quite used to you bothering me at all hours of the night.” She tried to laugh it off, but Sherlock didn’t react the way she had hoped._

_He didn’t know how to reply. He broke eye contact and looked at the scenery behind Aryn, leaving her wanting for an answer. She felt his grip tighten and pull her closer, his head resting on hers. Their dancing pace had slowed immensely, not even matching the music any longer._

_Understanding the silent communication, Aryn’s hands met one another behind Sherlock’s neck and clasped together, holding on as long as she could._

_It was a moment in time that they both wished would never end._

+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+

She brought one of her hands out from under her jacket, a tape recorder resting in her hand. She pushed the ‘play’ button, and the silence between her and John was filled with Sherlock’s song for her. John thought it was even more beautiful than the one he had written for his and Mary’s wedding.

His heart ached as he listened to her story. None of what she had described leant itself to being the Sherlock he had grown to know and care about. Some of those traits she described leaked out every once in a while, but for the most part Sherlock had been cold and unforgiving in many situations.

“What happened the next day?” he asked her.

She shrugged, looking down at the tape recorder. “I didn’t walk the line at graduation. He told me to wait at my dorm until after the ceremony so we could have our proper goodbyes.” Tears began to fall from her eyes onto the machine in her hand. “I waited until the absolute last minute that I could. And then…”

Her words were caught in her throat.

“And then what?” John asked, encouraging Aryn to finish her story by placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder.

“…I never saw him again.”

He sighed as he pulled Aryn in for a hug, her head falling to his shoulder.

“But that’s Sherlock, isn’t it?” he asked to no one in particular.

She chuckled, “Yes, it is.”

Suddenly, it clicked.

“Oh my god, John. You’re a genius!” she said, words still a bit slurred, as she bolted upright and looked at the confused doctor’s face.

“I’m what?” he asked. “How much have you had to drink?”

“Never mind that!” she exclaimed, leaving the bench. It wasn’t the smartest idea. Immediately she fell onto the concrete in her haste, skinning her right knee, her elbows, and part of her face.

“For god’s sake!” John exclaimed. He helped her up, slinging one of her arms over his shoulders for stability. “We need to get you cleaned up.”

“No!” she argued, trying to stumble away. “We need to go to Scotland Yard.”

“What is so important at Scotland Yard?” he demanded, starting to walk her towards the main entrance of the park.

She answered with great conviction, “ **SHERLOCK**.”


	9. Chapter 9

John felt as if he was trying to argue with Sherlock during the cab ride back. It took a half an hour’s worth of bickering to convince Aryn that she needed to sober up a bit more before going to Scotland Yard to clear up whatever it was she had just had an epiphany about.

In the vehicle, she chewed anxiously on the small sandwich John had bought for her, sipping from a bottle of water. She was sweating with anticipating. She was excited to get back and talk to everyone about it, not even hinting to John about what she had figured out.

John finally cleared Aryn after she opened her mouth to him to show she had eaten her entire “meal”. As much as he tried to get her to do it, she refused to let him treat her wounds because, as she put it, “there simply wasn’t time.”

The cab pulled up to the curb in front of Scotland Yard. Aryn didn’t even give it a chance to stop moving, let alone stop to pay the fare. She sprinted towards the building, leaving John to apologetically give the cabby money before chasing after her. Heading straight up to Lestrade’s office, Aryn raced wildly through the various desks until she made it, Donovan, Anderson, and Lestrade discussing other matters within.

“Bloody hell,” Lestrade commented, seeing the wounds on Aryn’s body. “Where were you?”

John came in soon after, breathing heavily and looking at Lestrade in a way that said he’d explain later.

Aryn didn’t say a word to anyone. Her hair was running wild and parts of her clothes were torn from where she had fallen. Her breaths were deep and her face was rosey. Blood had dried on her face from her other wounds and her eyes were wild with excitement. She began to look through Lestrade’s desk without asking, opening drawers and lifting papers out of the way as she searched.

“What is going on?” Donovan questioned, walking up to Aryn. “You can’t just bust in here like this and…” She sniffed the air around Aryn. “…have you been drinking?”

Donovan shot a concerned look to Lestrade, but Lestrade did nothing. He let Aryn look through his desk for whatever she needed to find.

“If you’re not going to do anything—“ Donovan warned, her blood starting to boil due to Lestrade’s passiveness. She reached for Aryn’s wrist to try and stop her.

Quicker than she expected, Aryn twisted her wrist out of Donovan’s grasp.

A loud thud indicated that Aryn was more aware of everyone in the room than they realized. John was surprised with the skill she had shown, pinning Donovan to the desk so that her arm was pulled up towards Aryn and her face was pressed against the cool wood of the desktop.

“Let. Me. _Work_.”

Lestrade walked around to take Donovan away from Aryn as he watched this woman he cared about frantically go through his office.

“What is she trying to find?” John asked, looking from face to face with concern.

“A-ha!” she exclaimed, holding up a pad of Post-Its.

John wondered at that point if she had really sobered up enough. She was holding up the Post-Its as if she had just found a pot of gold at the end of a rainbow.

Without acknowledging anyone, she started to walk briskly towards the meeting room.

Her heart was racing and her head was pounding with both excitement and because of how much alcohol she had consumed. To be honest, she didn’t even remember how many shots of whiskey she had ingested.

Opening the door, she was surprised to see Sherlock on the other side.

He was looking at the boards, the ring hidden safely in his palm. Its cold silver pulsated in his hand, his mind still focused on the argument that took place in that very room earlier.

Turning to see who had entered the room, he narrowed his eyes when he saw her wounds. “You’ve been drinking.”

“Shut up, I’m working.” She rushed over to the board and looked through the victims’ pictures. She used her finger to look through their general information profiles, each time landing on their ages. “It all makes sense.”

Everyone else had filled up the room—except for Donovan who had decided to separate herself from Aryn for the time being—all still bewildered as to what was happening.

“Aryn,” John asked, stepping towards her. “What’s going on?”

“I,” she began, frantically shuffling through the papers on the table to find her black pen, “have found our connection.”

“What is it?” Lestrade asked, walking up next to John.

She pointed directly at Sherlock.

“Me?” he asked in confusion. “Why would it be me?”

“Nothing about these victims even relate to one another. I have to agree with Sherlock: why would he be their one connection?” Anderson asked very matter-of-factly.

“No one asked for your thoughts, Anderson,” Aryn commented, finding her black pen and starting to write names down on singular Post-Its. “Sherlock, tell me the ages and genders of our victims.”

He looked at her in disbelief. He was in no mood to be bossed around. “No. Not until you tell me what’s going on.” His grip on the ring increased, the band creating a severe indentation on his hand.

“Oh come on Sherlock,” she whined, turning towards him. “You insist on showing off your deductions whenever you figure something out. Why not let someone else pull you along to their conclusion?”

“Because you’re drunk and I’m not really interested in hearing a drunk’s silly antics,” he growled. He slyly put the ring into his trouser pocket, then put both of his hands on her shoulders. All she could do was focus on him. “What point are you trying to get at by doing this?” His tone was cold and fierce, piercing in to the small woman that stood before him. His breaths were getting deeper as his frustration grew.

At first, her eyes were full of fear. Sherlock never lost her temper with her in this way. But within seconds, she smirked at him, her demeanor suddenly changing. “Better to hear it from someone who’s drunk than someone who’s just had a fix, eh Sherlock?” Her tone had become sly and sneaky.

His head moved back slightly in suspicion as he tried to read her eyes. She knew what he had done—or what he had almost done. But how?

“I saw your arm yesterday,” she answered without prompting, reading Sherlock’s mind. “Sleeve rolled up, rubber mark on your arm…now that I think about it, you didn’t put anything into the tank, though. Good boy,” she commented.

He let go of her shoulders and stepped back, his gaze never leaving her.

“I have an actual point to all of this, so just let me be,” she warned, looking around the room. “Now Sherlock, the ages and genders.”

He sighed, hesitant to give in to her various demands. Closing his eyes, he tried to remember. “Four males, two in their fifties, one in his thirties, one two-month old. Three women, two in their thirties and one in her seventies.”

She wrote the information down in scribbles under the names she had written earlier. “So seven victims which matches the seven rose purchase that six of them made before they died.

“Now Sherlock has a group of people that he cares about, even though he doesn’t outwardly show it,” Aryn began. She walked to the board and stood in front of the elderly woman’s profile. “Mrs. Hudson, the kind landlady,” she said, sticking a Post-It with Mrs. Hudson’s name on the elderly woman’s photo.

“Molly Hooper, the young woman who cares for the consulting detective,” she continued, placing a Post-It in the same manner as before.

“Greg Lestrade, the man Sherlock needs for cases as much as the DI needs Sherlock to solve them; Mycroft Holmes, the ever-caring older brother…”

She stopped when she reached the last three Post-Its, looking around the room to see if anyone else had caught on. Her eyes fell to John whose face had turned a pale white.

“And me…” John finished, staring at the board in fear and disbelief. He had to sit down to take in all of the information.

“And the Watsons,” she finished, taking a deep breath as she turned away from John. “Sherlock’s best friend and his soon-to-be family.” She placed the last three notes and stepped back from the board, running her hand over her mouth as if she was wiping something off of it. “Sherlock is the connection. It’s a hit list.”

The room grew very quiet. Even Sherlock sat on the table in disbelief, staring at the board as well as the notes Aryn left on them.

“Aryn, this is…” Lestrade started, not knowing how to finish his sentence. It was a first for him to become a target of a crime in this way. He wasn’t sure what was more shocking, though: being a target or being considered someone that Sherlock cared about.

“Greg,” Donovan called, slightly out of breath. She was standing in the doorway after jogging to the meeting room. Her face was white with fear, her hands behind her back.

He turned to face her and nodded, signaling for her to continue her statement.

“This came for you.” She lifted up her gloved hand that held a large rose that was fully bloomed, its scent wafting throughout the entire room. “And it came with this.” She held up a card that said in bold, black letters “One more victim to go.”

+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+

Sherlock sat at 221B Baker Street for the first time in several days. He had showered and tried to wrap his head around what Aryn had done that day. Not only did she find the connection, but it came down to the fact that the connection was him. He was putting so many people in danger—again—and he still hadn’t a clue who was behind these murders.

Not to mention there was one more person that was in danger; some civilian who resembled someone he cared about. He didn’t know who would be next.

He was sitting in his chair, violin in hand, robe gracing his frame. He looked down at the instrument, admiring its curves, beautiful reddish-brown color, and sleek strings. Placing it between his neck and body, he began to play whatever song came to mind. It was an all too familiar song that started to come out, though.

“I’ve heard that song before,” John commented from the doorway, recognizing the tune from the night prior.

Sherlock continued to play, his eyes fixed on what he was doing. “Shouldn’t you be with Mary?”

John shook his head as he walked in and sat in his arm chair across from Sherlock. “She’s fine. She can handle herself.”

Sherlock looked at John with cautious eyes, then brought them back to his fingers.

“So, you and Aryn…”

“What about us?”

“What’s the story?”

“There is no story.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

John rolled his eyes.

“If you know there’s a story, then why ask me about it?” Sherlock snapped, discontinuing his violin playing. He glared at John intensely.

He looked over his friend’s features, trying to break him down as if he was Sherlock himself. He saw the tired look in his eyes, the frustration seeping out of his expression. Although he was fueled by anger, he could tell it wasn’t a place Sherlock wanted to be. Aryn’s actions haunted Sherlock, as well as his own actions all those years ago. It hurt John to see him getting more and more vulnerable with Aryn around. “I want to hear your perspective.”

Sherlock sighed as he set down his violin and mumbled to himself.

“Sherlock,” John began, leaning forward, “why did you leave her like that?”

Sherlock didn’t answer. Instead, he folded his arms over his chest as his eyes fell to the rug in front of him.

“Did you love her?”

Sherlock looked up at John as if he was a small five-year-old who was angry at their parent. The silent treatment was his weapon of choice.

John sighed in disbelief, leaning back in his chair.

Before Sherlock could answer, Mrs. Hudson came to the doorway. “Sherlock, dear,” she began. “Oh, hello John!”

“Mrs. Hudson,” John answered, nodding courteously towards the woman.

“Sherlock, there’s a package for you.” She brought out a brown box that was about 18 inches long and four inches wide.

His expression was suddenly curious. He stood up, allowing the robe to fall behind him on his chair as he walked over to accept the package. “Thank you Mrs. Hudson.”

He set the package down on the coffee table in front of the couch, looking it over with great detail. The package was simply wrapped with no postage marks on it. The only writing on it was Sherlock’s name. No tape secured the lid, allowing for easy access into it.

He lifted the lid slowly, scared of what he’d find inside.

John peered into it, interested in the box’s contents.

Within, there was white tissue paper. As Sherlock peeled the sheets back, there was another rose. This one was very different. It was a rose bud. The flower hadn’t had a chance to bloom yet. Not only that, but the flower itself had been cut off from the stem, as if it had been decapitated.

He looked up at John, his mind racing at a million miles a minute. Was this the next victim?

+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+

Aryn had slept for what seemed like days. Her body was aching with exhaustion and her head was sore due to the massive amount of alcohol she had consumed. As she sat up in bed, she looked around to find that John had been nice enough to leave her a glass of water on her nightstand. She took a healthy swig of it, kicked her legs over the side of the bed, and walked to the bathroom to shower.

The hot water felt relaxing. It was if she was washing away all of the negative things that had happened over the past few days. Although it was nice to finally have a lead, it didn’t help that they didn’t have an idea of who the last victim was going to be.

Her wounds stung as she lathered her body with soap. John had wrapped them with bandages and left extra wrappings on her dining room table so that she could redress them later. They were deeper than she thought, Aryn regretting not allowing John to treat them earlier. Not only did her wounds still sting, but her head was now pounding even worse than before.

She finished her shower, changed into comfortable clothes, then dropped onto her couch. She vaguely remembered Lestrade telling her to take the day off. She held her head. The pounding was getting worse. It was so bad, she couldn’t even think straight. It was going to be a long day off.

+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+

Rushing to Lestrade’s office, Sherlock held the box while John tried to call Aryn. She wasn’t picking up her cell phone, which John wasn’t surprised with considering what kind of state he had left her in the night prior. She was out like a light when he put her into bed.

“I thought I told you two to take the day off,” Lestrade barked, not very happy to see the consulting detective and doctor in his office so soon.

Sherlock held out the box to Lestrade.

He eyed it suspiciously.

“It’s the next victim,” Sherlock stated. He lifted the lid and showed Lestrade the rose.

“A flower? Not a person?” he questioned, leaning back in his chair. “I think I should go get a drink myself.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. He took out the rose and set it off to the side on Lestrade’s desk. Looking through the tissue paper, he couldn’t find anything distinct. It was frustratingly amazing how meticulous this killer was in their placement of items as well as how clean all of the messages were. No fingerprints, no remnants of DNA, not even the tiniest speck of dust to line the box; this killer was good.

Suddenly, something caught his eye. Beneath the tissue paper in the same dark lettering the last note came with, he saw a solitary word. Lifting the paper out of the box with haste, a lone name sat at the bottom:

**Kalyn**


	10. Chapter 10

“‘Kalyn’,” Sherlock said out loud, handing the box to Lestrade. “I’ve heard that name before.”

“Good, something we can run with,” Lestrade said, taking the box from Sherlock. “Donovan!” he called, standing up and walking towards the door of his office.

She met him and looked around the room in slight surprise. She too did not expect to see John and Sherlock back so soon. With the developments that had happened the day prior, though, it wasn’t too surprising.

“Run a database search of everyone in England with this name. No variations in the spelling. I need this exactly as is.”

She nodded as she wrote down the name and went to her computer, entering the information and waiting for the results.

“Once we get that list, you can look through to see if any of those names stick out to you.”

Sherlock had been too busy thinking about the name familiar to hear Lestrade’s instructions. The familiarity was what frightened him. It was as if he had known this name for quite some time, filing it away in his mind for later use.

Pacing back and forth in Lestrade’s office, Sherlock kept closing his eyes and thinking, trying to get to his mind palace. His mind jumped from idea to idea. First he went through his family’s names, to which he came up empty. He then tried to think of people he had associated with that he held close, but none of them had ‘Kalyn’ as a first or last name.

“Still can’t get a hold of Aryn,” John announced. “I’ve tried her phone at least ten times now.”

“She’s probably exhausted. Best you leave her be for now. We can fill her in later,” Lestrade decided, sitting back in his chair. He watched Sherlock’s face twist as he tried to remember. The way Sherlock’s mind worked was an enigma to the DI, Lestrade glad that he didn’t have to deal with that kind of process when working on cases.

He thought back to what had happened with Aryn earlier. Never in his life had he seen her as drunk or as disheveled as she had been. She looked as if she had been crying, which was an odd sight for Lestrade to behold. He had always known her to be a strong young woman. She never had to succumb to alcohol use to ease her mind, nor did he think he had so much going on at home to be worried about. He had no idea her family was in the state it was in, and if he had known about her depression, he would have stepped in to save her from her self-harm sooner.

As a father figure, he felt he was failing.

Donovan walked in a few moments later with a list, a name already highlighted. “You’re not gonna believe it.”

+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+

Aryn woke up in a chair. Her head hurt more than before, but this time the pain wasn’t internal. She could feel the blood dripping down the side of her face, suggesting the wound she had sustained wasn’t only reopened, but it was also larger.

Looking at her surroundings, she couldn’t see anything aside from a small window that sat across the room. From what little light she had, she could tell that this room was underground, the window set high enough so that she could see above the surface. The sky outside was a bright blue and clouds were rolling across it at a steady pace. The wind must have been especially strong that day.

The room was dark, Aryn and the chair she was tied to the only things she could see in the room. She couldn’t even tell where the door was. Was this it for her? Was she going to die in this chair—in this room where no one she cared about would be able to find her in time?

A cold laugh startled her. It came from a darkened corner of the room. Aryn’s head immediately turned to look at the figure, trying to hide the fear in her eyes.

“No need to put up a front with me, sweetheart,” the man cooed, standing up from where he was. “You won’t die as fast as the others.” He walked over to her slowly, taking in what he had in front of her. “You’re going to be the first one on the list to die. Sherlock won’t be very happy when you’re gone. Or maybe he will be. Judging by how he’s been treating you, one can’t really tell.”

She felt her jaw tense as her eyes continued to follow the figure, not blinking.

“Relax. Make yourself at home. You’ll be here for a while.”

+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+

“Her middle name is ‘Kalyn’?” John asked, astounded at the fact that Sherlock wouldn’t be able to remember such a minute detail such as this. He could tear someone apart by making deductions about their appearances, solve a murder at a wedding, and tell a person about the differences between the various kinds of chewing tobacco, but he couldn’t remember Aryn’s middle name.

“A.K.C.: Aryn Kalyn Clarke,” Lestrade said, his gaze at the paper growing graver. “You said she hasn’t answered any of your calls, John?”

John shook his head, his attention immediately going to Sherlock.

Sherlock’s eyes had grown very intense since Donovan had come in. The worry in his eyes was much more apparent now. Still not knowing who they were dealing with, Sherlock stood up and went to grab his coat. “We need to go to her flat. Now.”

+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+

_“A.K.C.; why are you so formal with your text signature? You don’t need the middle initial you know,” Sherlock had teased. They were sitting at the library on a Saturday morning enjoying the emptiness the building had to offer._

_“Just A.C. makes me sound like a cooling unit. The K makes me sound more…professional,” she said. “Besides, I’m proud of my name.”_

_“How so?” he asked, looking over the book he had in front of him once more._

_“Kalyn is my grandmother’s name. It’s Greek for ‘rose bud’. My mother said it always suited me because I was sweet and fragile in my youth.”_

+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+

Rosebud.

How could he have forgotten? The answer to the mystery package had been in front of his face.

“Her name,” he told Jon as they sat in the cab.

John looked from side to side as if he was supposed to know what that meant.

“Aryn’s middle name means ‘rosebud’. Her name was the clue for the last victim. She’s probably the first person this killer is going to murder.”

As they drove through the busy streets of London, John looked out the window at the various screens that held many advertisements. They were large attention-getters, people often stopping to watch them go through their cycles of ads.

John wouldn’t have paid them a second glance if it hadn’t been for one screen in particular. The image on that screen showed a frail girl sitting in a dark room. He swallowed hard.

“Sherlock…”

That one image was now on two boards. Then three. Then four. It spread until all of the boards now showed this girl.

“Stop the cab,” Sherlock ordered. The cabby continued to drive. “Stop the cab!” he shouted. The sudden halt of the cab matched the rest of the intersections, people getting out of their cars and filing out of shops to see what was going on. All eyes were on the many screens.

Aryn looked exhausted. The gash on her forehead was much larger than what John and Sherlock remembered. Her eyes were filled with fear, but her expression was as serious as she could make it. There were very determined lines running across it.

“Sherlock Holmes,” she began, much more calmly than Sherlock anticipated. Her tone was one of hesitation and bitterness. “You’ve solved part of my p-puzzle.”

“Ryn,” he whispered to himself. Sherlock could feel the anger traveling from head to toe, his fists clenching and his heart pounding in his ears. Every way he turned, Aryn’s face was on a screen. He even saw Lestrade get out of his police car to watch the scene unfold. He looked like a father whose daughter had been kidnapped, his body tense and scared.

“We’ll see how long it t-takes you to find her.” Each word was clear and deliberate, her pacing slow and even aside from the occasional stutter.

Sherlock tried to read her face to see if there was any indication of where she could be or who she was with, but he couldn’t find anything. Whatever his person had said to her prior to starting the feed must have put her in her place. The threat must have been a serious one.

Or she was planning something else entirely.

“Back where it b-began. Y-you have twelve hours.”

The end of her message had come. Aryn found her chance.

“Small window. Underground. East,” were the only four words she uttered.

No sooner had the words left her mouth, the image on the various screens went black.

Her blood curdling scream rang throughout London, rattling Sherlock, John, and Lestrade from the inside out.

“SHERLOOOOCK!” she cried out.

The screens suddenly returned to their original advertisements and the audio returned to normal, as if nothing had happened.

The people on the streets started to chatter and move about, some with concern and some with indifference. Many were curious as to who this girl was who knew Sherlock Holmes, others were scared because they recognized the DI from Manchester.

John and Sherlock exchanged fearful looks with each other before looking towards Lestrade. They both rushed to the cab they had climbed out of and gave extra money to the cabby to get Aryn’s flat at a faster pace. They hoped there would be something there to point them in the direction of where Aryn was being kept.

+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+

“That was very rude of you,” the man commented, wiping his hands with a towel he had brought.

Aryn was no longer tied to her chair, not that she was strong enough to get up and do anything anymore. She was certain that part of her cheek bone was fractured and that she had some severe bruising in her midsection. Her nose was bleeding out onto the floor and she felt as if her right knee had been blown out.

“You know, Sherlock is a hard man to reason with. Somehow you tamed him.” The man walked over to Aryn to sit in front of her, moving her head and pinching her nose so the bleeding would stop. “How did you do it?”

She stayed silent, her frustration and anger boiling within her. Why should she explain to this man how she and Sherlock had become friends? Why should she pour out her feelings to the person who would most likely kill her?

“It’s very impolite to not answer someone when they’re talking to you,” the man commented, staring down at Aryn. His stare was intense. He had stubble on his face and he didn’t seem like he was very tall. His demeanor was calm, yet commanding. She tried to remember why he looked so familiar, but she couldn’t put her finger on it.

“Patience,” she muttered.

He laughed. “Being patient with Sherlock…you must be made of the stuff if you managed to be his friend and fall in love with him.”

+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+

At Aryn’s flat, tensions ran high as the three men combed through each room trying to find any clue as to where she could be hidden. Nothing was out of place aside from the fact that there were still bandages sitting where John had left them on the dining room table.

Sherlock walked near the front door again and picked up the picture frame containing Thalia and Aryn when they were in college. He sighed, looking at how happy Aryn had been. Aside from the day he had saved her from tripping on her shoe laces, the smile in the frame was a rarity. Part of him wished that he could rewind to that point in time. He was happy, she was happy, and things weren’t nearly as chaotic as they were then.

“I’m coming up with nothing,” John finally announced, sitting on Aryn’s couch in exhaustion.

Lestrade came out from her bedroom, his eyebrows furrowed and the hard lines on his face showing his frustration. Without warning, he knocked over some books that sat next to Aryn’s couch in a fit of rage, yelling out as he did so.

Sherlock looked up at Lestrade, setting the picture down and walking over to the other two men.

“What did she mean when she said ‘back to the beginning’?” John asked, looking up at Sherlock.

“Could be a number of things: her first job as a DI, her first date, her first day of college,” Sherlock replied, sitting at the dining room table.

“But you’re the connection aren’t you?” John prompted.

Sherlock nodded. The “beginning” was probably something tied to Aryn and Sherlock’s relationship back in college. It wasn’t much to go on. There was Aryn’s first bar visit, Aryn’s first college dance, Aryn’s first meeting with Sherlock—all of these and more were viable options. They didn’t have the time to go through each and every one to find her.

Combing his hands through his hair, he turned to Lestrade and said, “I’ll give you some addresses. We need to start looking now.”


	11. Chapter 11

They searched high and low through each address that Sherlock had given Lestrade. First, Sherlock and John had gone back to Sherlock’s old dorm, trying to find an underground room or a basement that would lend itself to the partial description Aryn had given them. They searched the perimeter numerous times, turning up nothing.

Lestrade had gone to the pub where Sherlock had mentioned seeing Aryn go to for her first night out with Thalia. He talked with the owner about a basement. He had one, but there weren’t any windows.

More dead ends were turning up every which way they turned. Each location they went to either had no basement, or the basements lacked a window. Reconvening at Scotland Yard, Lestrade collapsed in his chair, staring at his desk. John and Sherlock sat silently in the other chairs in the room, the hustle and bustle of the office outside making it seem as if time was flying by.

Suddenly, Lestrade struck out once more, slamming his palm on his desk. He shouted out in frustration, his deep breaths adding to the tension to the room. It was a hard situation to cope with. Aryn was someone he favored and cared for deeply. He felt partially responsible for her disappearance. He should have made sure she was taken care of after she had been sent home. He should have gone to her flat the moment John mentioned her not answering her phone. He should have done so much more.

Sherlock sat with his hands in his pockets, staring at the floor in front of John. His brain was working overtime trying to think of places they could still check. It had been six hours already, their time dwindling at an alarming rate. He sighed, looked up at John briefly, then back down to the floor.

“Has Anderson returned from her flat yet?” Sherlock asked.

Lestrade nodded. “He’s analyzing samples in the lab. Found a glass near her sink. Said there was something odd about it.”

Sherlock looked up at John. “Did you leave the water on her nightstand?”

“How did you know it was on her nightstand? Anderson found it in the kitchen,” John inquired.

“Water marks on the nightstand. Condensation would have dripped down the glass and made the ring. Glass would have been there for quite some time before she drank it and moved it to the kitchen, so it must have been there before she went to sleep. Did you leave it there?”

John thought back to the night before, recounting his routine. “I brought her back, guided her to the bedroom with one of her arms over my shoulders because the alcohol had finally hit her pretty hard. I set her on the bed, she stretched out, and she fell asleep almost instantly. I walked out, left the bandages on the table, and that was that. No water.”

Sherlock let out a sigh of grief. “She was drugged then.”

“Would make it easier to move her,” John added. “She must’ve woken up, drunk the water to help her hangover, and then the drugs would have knocked her back down.”

“I don’t care how she ended up where she is,” Lestrade interrupted. “We need to find her.” He stood up, shuffling through the papers on his desk. “I’m going to set up a conference with the press. You two figure out where to look next,” he growled, grabbing a photo of Aryn, a paper that looked to have her description on it, then walked out.

Sherlock looked up at John who looked slightly shaken up by the situation.

“Sherlock,” he began, “when you two first met, it was at the library, right?”

Sherlock nodded. “No windows in that basement.”

“Yes, yes, I know,” John assured with slight irritation as he stood up and began to pace. “She met you at your dorm—“

“And we went on a case. We’ve checked all of those buildings,” Sherlock snapped, his gaze at John intense.

“Well, maybe it’s not the beginning of your friendship that this killer wants you to focus on.”

Sherlock cocked his head slightly as his eyebrows furrowed.

“When do you think Aryn first started to fall for you?”

+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+

That leap.

That’s all she could think about as she lay on her side, her head resting upon the cold floor that was now painted a deep red color. For the most part, the liquid had dried and Aryn could move a little bit more now. The pain hadn’t subsided, but the adrenaline and initial shock was starting to fade.

Her mind wasn’t focused on her wounds or situation, though. She was focused on the night that Sherlock had saved her. Her memories brought her back to that moment where she felt Sherlock’s hands reach out and save her; where his embrace protected her from the world surrounding her. She remembered being wrapped up in his arms and feeling the pounding of his heartbeat in her ear as she pressed her head into his chest.

Faith.

There was no doubting her faith in Sherlock after that moment. He wasn’t cold enough to just let her fall to her demise, but the fact that he was so protective of her during those moments proved that he valued her as more than just an assistant.

After that, she remembered that he wouldn’t let her linger behind him more than a few feet. His eyes were always following her, checking her surroundings as well as how she carried herself. She could see the worry and caution in his expression that lent itself as a perfectly good distraction that night. He himself stumbled on a few things as they looked through an office for information which had caused her to laugh.

As she thought of Sherlock, she laughed and a searing pain shot up her side. Something else was broken, the jostling of her body as she laughed stimulating it.

Sherlock was going to save her. She knew he would.

He had to.

+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+

_Sherlock had hopped down off of a wall into a private property. He looked around, not bothering to help Aryn as she struggled to meet her feet with the ground. Her height was an ongoing problem when it came to doing things like scaling walls and fences. She wasn’t necessarily short for a woman her age, but she wasn’t the tallest person either._

_“Sherlock, where are we going?” she hissed, dusting off her coat after it had collected dust from the wall._

_He ignored her question, continuing to look around. There were supposed to be guards at this building, but none were anywhere to be seen. Odd for a place that held offices with important information. He and Aryn were out on another mission to gather data for a case._

_Walking towards the building, he kept looking around for any sign of people besides himself and Aryn. Slowly he crept towards the fire escape. Still no one had seen him._

_Pulling on the metal ladder, it made a loud noise as it came down. It sounded as if someone had taken a stick and run it along the side of a metal fence, each bar making a loud sound as the stick struck it._

_“Stop right where you are,” a voice said from behind him._

_Sherlock froze, looking straight ahead._

_“Arms up,” the man said._

_Sherlock did as he was told. “Are you with the police?”_

_“Turn ‘round slowly or I’ll shoot.”_

_Turning, Sherlock looked around in any direction he could. Aryn was nowhere to be seen._

_“Are you with the police?” Sherlock repeated, finally turning to be face to face with his captor._

_The man was in his mid-forties, dressed in a security uniform. He had a gun in his hands that was pointed at Sherlock. Judging by how he was holding it, he had never shot the gun before, nor did he have any intention of doing so now because the safety was still on. He was a round gentleman with a noticeably stronger right arm than left. He wore a ring on a chain around his neck and his left ring finger was still tanned—divorce._

_“Taking it hard?” Sherlock asked, distracting the security guard._

_“Come again?”_

_“Your divorce—you must be taking it quite hard? I can only imagine living by yourself must be a large change from the life you used to know. Any kids?”_

_The guard’s face twisted into anger and confusion all at once. The mention of his kids did catch his attention, protective instincts starting to take over. “What d’you know about my kids?”_

_“Nothing, nothing. I’m assuming you don’t have custody judging by the condition of your arm and how much porn you must be watching at home. Lost custody, lost the girl, and lost the house. Tsk tsk…good thing you’ve got a lot of pride with this job, don’t you?”_

_The man was steaming as he cocked the gun that was in his hand. “Get moving or I’ll shoot.”_

_“Not if I shoot first.”_

_Both men turned to look to their right as Aryn stood with a gun in her hand. Sherlock was surprised and wondered where she got it from, let alone if she knew how to use it._

_“Pretty lady, this isn’t the time or place for you,” the guard said with a smug smirk._

_She cocked the gun, her gaze fierce and demanding. “I’ll count to three.”_

_The guard’s expression suddenly changed as fear began to take over. Sherlock watched as the man’s eyes dilated and his arms began to fall to his sides, gun now pointing towards the ground. The man began to sweat as he stared at the barrel of Aryn’s gun._

_“One.”_

_Without another word, the guard began to jog away, most likely off to call the actual police._

_“We’re leaving,” Aryn announced, starting back towards the wall. “Police will be here in minutes if we don’t leave now.”_

_…_

_As they walked down the street after clearing themselves off of the building’s property, Sherlock couldn’t help but be curious about what had happened. It was unlike Aryn to take control of a situation like that, nor was it normal for her to be carrying a gun or any weapon at all when they were out on cases like these._

_“Aryn,” he began, stopping in his tracks._

_She turned to look at him after he stopped walking._

_“Where did you get the gun?”_

_She smiled. Pulling the gun out of her pea coat, she tossed it to him and continued to walk._

_At first, he panicked as he watched the weapon fall through the air. He was worried he may catch it the wrong way with the amount of rotations it was making in-air. The last thing he wanted to do was pull the trigger and have some kind of freak accident._

_Upon catching the gun, though, he became very confused. It was much lighter than it should have been. It wasn’t that the gun was missing a clip or some other major component; the gun was plastic._

_Looking down at the gun, then looking up at Aryn, he couldn’t help but laugh as she stood watching him. A large grin was plastered on her face._

_They were even. For now._

+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+

He opened his eyes, noting that he was alone in Lestrade’s office once again. His hands were in their usual steeple in front of his mouth as he stopped daydreaming. His mind had been wandering since he and John returned to Scotland Yard and memories of him and Aryn were pouring in.

What John had asked him to think about was a very strange request. He wasn’t one to notice any real emotional change in a person unless he was trying to rip them apart with his razor sharp deductions. At that time in college, he was so focused on getting new cases to keep his mind occupied that anything else that happened seemed very irrelevant. It wasn’t until he and Aryn started to get more comfortable with each other did he notice her emotions. By then, he figured she had already established what kind of feelings she had for him.

But when did she figure that all out?

+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+

The door opened which caused Aryn’s eyes to snap open. She had closed them briefly because she was getting tired. The blood loss was taking its toll and she felt very exhausted.

Footsteps caused her heart to race and her body to tense up as the adrenalin ran through her once again. She could hear the chair moving behind her, being dragged across the room to be put against the wall.

“Six hours,” the man said, walking back over to Aryn. “Six hours until you die.”

That was reassuring.

The man walked around Aryn and sat down in front of her in the same manner as he had before.

“How does it feel knowing that you didn’t mean that much to him?”

Her eyes slowly went to his face, her expression trying to show zero interest in the words he had asked her.

“He didn’t bother to even see you off all those years ago. Now here he is, back in your life, and he doesn’t bother to come and save you. What did you do to him?”

She wondered what kind of strategy this man was playing at, especially at the mention of his last question. Aryn knew that Sherlock wouldn’t give up on her that quickly. This case had been tormenting him to no end, and now they had an actual lead and a victim who was still alive. There was no way Sherlock was going to pass this up no matter who the victim was.

Victim: an odd notion for Aryn to consider. Never in her life had she been considered to be the victim of a case.

The man’s face twisted into a small smile. “You believe in Sherlock Holmes so firmly. I’ll tell you this right now, sweetheart…” He leaned in close to her face, the warm air from his breaths pushing on her face. “…when those six hours are up, that’s when he’ll come to get you. He doesn’t care enough to ensure your safety. Tick, tock, tick, tock.”

His voice chilled her to the bone as he continued his chant. It seemed that he was standing on the edge of insanity. His eyes danced with delight with every word he told her. He enjoyed planting these seeds in her head, waiting for them to bloom into corruption.

Tick, tock.


	12. Chapter 12

_“Your dress looks great, and you,” Aryn commented, putting the finishing touches on her sister’s hair, “are a beautiful bride.”_

_They were sitting in her sister’s room getting ready for her wedding. They were hosting it at their mother’s house, a beautiful two story home with a large, spacious back yard. Numerous flowers graced its grounds and great trees provided the perfect amount of shade and light to have a wonderful gathering with friends and family._

_“Aryn, I don’t know what I would have done without you,” Amy whispered, tears welling in her eyes. She stood up and looked at herself in the full length mirror once more. Taking a deep breath, she turned to face her sister. “I can’t believe this is really happening!” The tears faded and a large smile spread across her face._

_The smile was infectious, Aryn’s face mirroring her sister’s._

_“Now, we need to talk about you for a minute. Sit, sit, sit,” Amy ordered, gesturing towards the seat she was just in._

_Aryn rolled her eyes playfully as she sat down, now looking at herself in the mirror. Her light blue dress matched her sister’s bouquet that was on the table next to her. Her hair was curled and put up with a million and one Bobbi pins and her make-up was simple. It was the nicest she had made up herself since the night she had last seen Sherlock. It was a thought she didn’t want to bring back to mind, but after looking at herself in the mirror, the memories pushed through._

_“I know that since you’re my maid of honor, and very single, you’re most likely going to meet a lot of guys tonight.”_

_“A lot of drunk guys,” Aryn added. “I’m not going to be looking for a boyfriend tonight, Amy. It’s just not happening.”_

_“Can you at least get laid or something then?” Amy teased._

_Aryn turned around and glared at her sister briefly before bringing her attention back to the mirror in front of her. “I’m not that shallow. I’ll find love when I find it. This is not the time or place for it.”_

_“Then can you, at the very least, take that ring off of your finger? I can guarantee that it’s a deterrent to any many wanting to even think about a relationship with you.”_

_Aryn looked down at the silver band she had received years ago. She twisted it around her finger as she sat in silence following her sister’s comment._

_Amy stared at her sister in the mirror and watched her actions. “Aryn, you need to move on.”_

+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+

It was the last time her sister had mentioned the subject. It was touchy and neither one wanted to risk a huge fight over it. Part of Aryn had wondered what would have happened that night had she taken off the band. There was no doubting that her brother-in-law’s best man was the cutest guy in the wedding party, but the alcohol turned him into one of the rudest people Aryn had ever met. She remembered leaving the reception early, in fact. It wasn’t worth the headache of trying to deter guys from “cheating” on her husband or dealing with her sister’s drunk husband.

Aryn was lost in her thoughts after her captor had left her alone once more. The minutes felt like hours. All she knew was that the longer she waited there on the ground, the closer she was getting to her demise. She was finally able to turn herself over completely on her back so that she was staring up at the ceiling. Every part of her body ached in one way or another, and it was excruciating.

She had to keep reassuring herself that Sherlock would come for her. That hope, though, was starting to fade. The words her captor had placed in her mind were eating away at her thoughts. It was a horrible feeling: losing hope in the one person that could save her.

+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+

Sherlock and John watched Lestrade’s press conference on the television that was in Lestrade’s office.

“Thank you all for coming.”

Lestrade looked as if he had aged 10 years in a matter of a few days. His eyes were slightly red, the bags resting under them getting more and more distinct. He wasn’t clean shaven and his tie was slightly loosened around his neck.

“Detective Inspector Aryn K. Clarke has been kidnapped and is being held hostage in an unknown location. The only indication we have of her whereabouts is that she’s in an underground room with a window to see to the street above.”

Cameras flashed as Lestrade looked around the room.

“She was brought in from Manchester to assist with a murder investigation. She was taken seven and a half hours ago, the captor leaving us with 12 hours to find her.”

“Why was she taken?” one of the reporters interrupted.

Lestrade paused in his speech, looking at the reporter with a tired look. He and Donovan had agreed to simply give Aryn’s description to the media, but no details on the case. No questions would be taken.

“Miss Clarke is five feet, five inches tall, has medium length brown hair, brown eyes, and a slim build.”

A picture of Aryn was posted up on a screen near where Lestrade was talking.

“She was last seen wearing a black pea coat, blue jeans, a white collared shirt, and black Converse shoes. Anyone with any information as to where Miss Clarke may be can contact police at Scotland Yard.”

“What connection does she have to Mr. Sherlock Holmes?”

Lestrade looked at the reporter with a dead stare.

“Witnesses reported hearing her call out to him when she was streamed on the advertisement boards earlier today,” another reporter interrupted. “Are they friends? Lovers?”

With that the room roared with questions and comments from reporters. The seal had been broken.

Lestrade and Donovan cleared out without answering any questions or even officially ending the conference. Time was ticking.

+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+

John turned off the television and looked back towards where Sherlock was sitting.

His eyes were still fixed on the blank screen, his mind seeming to be elsewhere.

“Sherlock? You okay?” John asked calmly, watching Sherlock’s expression carefully.

Sherlock looked up at him. “I didn’t go because I was afraid.”

“Sorry?” John asked, sitting in the chair next to Sherlock as he had been earlier.

“I didn’t meet her because I was…afraid.” The last word came out with more hesitation than before.

John wasn’t sure how to proceed.

“How much did she tell you about the night I had played her that song?”

His phrasing was spaced out and deliberate. He wanted to be very precise in his words.

“I...uhm…she told me about the dress and how you told her to go to the park. She mentioned your playing and then how you gave her the ring. And she mentioned the dance.”

Sherlock looked down and smirked slightly. “That dance…”

John sat for a moment in the silence that followed before he said, “She said you’re quite good. She enjoyed it immensely.”

“I’d been practicing,” Sherlock explained, looking up towards the empty television screen once more. “That night, John, is when I knew that Aryn meant more to me than I allowed myself to believe.”

John took a deep breath and looked at Sherlock with a slightly puzzled expression. “So you were afraid of—“

“—how I felt,” Sherlock finished, returning John’s gaze.

Nothing more needed to be said. Many unspoken details were passed through their words and expressions, as it would be between best friends. John understood where Sherlock was coming from because of how much he cared for Mary. For Sherlock to have experienced that, considering the type of person he was, was not only a shock, but an accomplishment.

“Come on,” John said, grabbing a list off of Lestrade’s desk. “We have more places to look. No giving up now.”

Sherlock looked up at his colleague who was waiting expectantly at the desk.

“You coming?”

Sherlock nodded as he stood up to join John.

Four hours left.

+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+

“Four hours,” he sang out to the nearly empty room. Her captor pulled up the chair she had been tied to earlier, placed it near her head, and sat down with his hands and chin leaning on the back as he gazed down at her.

She didn’t move a muscle.

“Tsk tsk tsk,” he said, looking her up and down. “Such a shame that you’ll be put to waste like this. But if Sherlock doesn’t want you, then I suppose it’s his loss, right?”

Tensing up, her eyes flicked quickly to his. Her breathing started to quicken, her heart beginning to race.

“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of you until it’s time.”

“I don’t find that very convincing.”

The man sighed as he looked around the room. “In all honesty, I thought he would have been here already.”

So did she.

“Maybe I’ll just make this simple for you. I don’t want to see you like this any more so…I’ll put you out of your misery a little earlier than planned. How does that sound to you?”

She swallowed hard. Aryn didn’t even bother hiding the fear in her face. Tears fell from her eyes as she shifted her focus to the ceiling once more, thinking about everything that had led up to that point. She thought of her family first.

Maybe it was okay to be reunited with them once more.

Maybe it was okay to finally escape everything that’s been haunting her.

Maybe it was okay to die.

+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+

Three hours were left. Three hours and they had nothing to show to help find Aryn.

John and Sherlock had made their way to Hyde Park in silence, sitting on the park bench John and Aryn had sat on only a few nights prior. The open water before them greeted the two men like an old friend. They both looked out at it, minds wandering to different places, ideas, and thoughts.

The sun was setting, the sky changing into various colors as the daylight started to fade. Trees rustled with the evening wind, sending a chill through the air that caused Sherlock to turn up his collar.

Not many people were at the park that evening. John had only noticed a handful of people hanging around to go running, take a walk with their pet, or spend time with a friend or loved one. The happiness that floated through the air seemed to stop dead when it reached the duo.

He looked over to Sherlock whose eyes were focused on the scene before him. He, just like Lestrade, looked as if he had aged greatly in such a short amount of time. His usual sharp mind had been dulled by this sudden turn of events and John wondered how this all would end. At first, he contemplated what would happen if Aryn came back alive. She would probably return to Manchester to either get away from Sherlock or to tie up loose ends before moving back to London to be with Sherlock. It was a toss-up, but he knew that there was still a chance the two would be together. Time would need to mend those wounds.

As his mind drifted to the other outcome, he quickly stopped thinking about the subject. It couldn’t be an option.

It shouldn’t be.

Sherlock finally took his eyes off of the water and looked around at the place they had decided to rest. It was all too familiar. He remembered exactly where he had placed the blanket and where they had danced, the violin’s song echoing in his head.

He couldn’t let her die. He couldn’t let someone who he had shown so much attention and care slip away from his grasp like a wisp of smoke. For many years, he believed what he had done the day they had graduated was right. He believed that maybe, just maybe, she would have given up, moved on, and had a successful life for herself. She needed someone to make her happy and ensure that she could have everything she wanted and more. It was what he felt she deserved, and what she could never find if she had ended up with him. Although she did have a great career, she never moved on. That was something Sherlock hadn’t anticipated.

But then again, he never moved on either.

Small vibrations in his coat pocket brought him out of his thoughts. He grabbed for his cell phone without looking at the ID, assuming Lestrade was calling to either find out where they were or to give them new information about Aryn’s location.

“What have you found?”

The person on the other end paused for a moment.

He could hear some rustling and he looked over at John, his brow furrowing in confusion. “Hello?”

“Sherlock?”

His heart immediately began to pound intensely in his chest. His eyes widened slightly as he stood up to walk a few steps away from John. “Ryn?”

John’s attention was immediately piqued, looking at Sherlock with great concern.

“Sherlock.” She breathed out whatever air she had held in her lungs when she heard the phone ringing moments ago. “I’m so glad to hear your voice.”

“Ryn, do you know where you are?” he asked, listening hard to any noise he could catch in the background of her phone call. He looked from left to right in an almost frantic way, as if thinking Lestrade would be there instantly to track the phone call for him.

“I don’t know.” Sherlock could hear her breathing with more labor than she should have been. She was hurt badly.

“Do you hear anything distinctive? See any people or lights or signs?” He needed her to focus. Turning towards John and looking at him with concern, Sherlock began to pace from the bench to the edge of the walkway in front of John.

“Sherlock, I don’t know.”

“Ryn, focus. I need to you to tell me if you can—“

“Sherlock.” Her voice rose slightly. Hesitating before she continued, she confessed, “I’m going to die here.”

He stopped dead in his tracks, looking down at his feet, then looking around the park. “No, no Ryn—I will find you.”

“I don’t know if I’m ready to die,” she told him, ignoring his statement. Tears trailed down from the corner of her eyes down to the hair that rested beneath her head. She stared up at the ceiling trying to imagine Sherlock’s face—trying to remember him so that maybe she’d be a little braver through everything that was happening.

John watched as his friend’s face twisted into various expressions. First, it was one of determination—trying to figure out all of the possible solutions to the enigmatic situation they had been presented with. Next, he watched the hope fall from Sherlock’s face as Aryn’s words began to tear down the man he had known to be so strong.

“You won’t die, Ryn,” Sherlock reassured. “I won’t let you.”

He heard her chuckle, then release a sharp hiss of pain. Something was broken or ruptured.

“I just want to hear your voice.” Taking a deep breath, she closed her eyes and relaxed her body. “I want to hear your voice until the end.”

He stepped slowly towards a patch of grass to John’s left. Kneeling, he reached for a handful of grass as if reaching for fabric. He could remember the blanket, his violin, and the ring placement as if it was yesterday. He closed his eyes tightly, fighting off the impending tears that were pushing against his eyes like strong water against a dam. He finally sat down, looking back towards the water once more. His legs were bent, bringing his knees up towards his chest.

“Sherlock,” her meek voice began, “that night on the rooftop—I never really thanked you for saving my life.”

He let his head hang low as his mind raced to think of their options.

“I wanted to tell you that I have never felt quite as safe as I did that night.” She could still feel his arms wrapped around her shoulders and back and hear his heart beating at a million miles per minute. She could see his protective gaze following her for the rest of that night, ensuring that she wasn’t going to get hurt while on his watch. “I’ve never felt safer than when I was with you.”

The silence on the other end was deafening for Aryn. She knew that Sherlock wasn’t a man of many words when it came to his feelings unless they were words used to rip apart other people. With her, she knew it was different, though.

“Where are you right now?” Her voice was fading more and more as her breaths deepened.

“Hyde Park.”

“Still go there to rid yourself of your frustrations?”

He heard her smile as she spoke. The tension fell from his shoulders as he looked around once more, noting John’s expression as he continued to sit on the bench.

“Only out of habit. One that you formed for me.”

“Better than some of the other habits you formed for yourself.”

She coughed and doubled over in pain as she rolled onto her side, the phone now sitting right in front of her face.

“Sherlock…” Feeling the extent of her wounds as well as her blood loss, Aryn knew that whatever she needed to ask Sherlock, she needed to ask now. “…all those years ago, at Hyde Park, why did you do that for me?”

Sherlock stood up and walked back over to John as he pondered his answer. He stood in front of where he was sitting, facing the doctor. “I…wanted to do something nice for you. You were a great friend and I wanted to—“

“Sherlock—the real reason.”

For once, John’s eyes met Sherlock’s and sensed nothing but uncertainty coming from the detective. He knew what Aryn had asked—it was hard not to judging by the fear that was slowly creeping over Sherlock’s features—and he felt it was only right that Sherlock tell her what he needed to say.

John nodded to Sherlock in support.

Taking a deep breath, Sherlock walked away from John once more, stopping at the edge of the pathway. “I heard you a few nights prior, talking to Thalia.”

No reply.

“I never believed that anyone could care for me in the capacity that you were talking about, so I wanted to show you how much I cared for you.” He paused, struggling to find the exact words he wanted to say. “I had grown rather fond of you and needed you to know that your efforts and friendship with me weren’t for nothing. You…truly meant everything to me.”

He could hear a muffled voice in the background, the phone rustling, then silence once more.

“He said to tell you that you have one hour to find me, Sherlock.”

No. Impossible. Taking a two hour loss would make it nearly impossible to find her.

“Ryn? Ryn, listen to me—“

“I love you.”

The phone rustled around again as Sherlock gained his bearings on everything that had happened in the last 30 seconds. He was stuck in a sea of emotions, swept away by anger, frustration, and fear.

Turning towards John with urgency, he said, “Phone Lestrade, we have one hour.”

“An hour?” John asked in disbelief. He pulled out his phone as Sherlock attempted to get a hold of Aryn once more.

“Ryn? Aryn?”

“No, what are you doing?” Aryn’s voice was suddenly strong with panic. She was close to shouting. “No, no, PLEASE.”

Her cries of pain rang through Sherlock’s head. She cried out for him, for his protection, and he only stood there, helpless. He stared blankly across the park as he felt his chest tighten.

“If you find her alive in one hour, Mr. Holmes,” a mystery voice said on the other end of the line, “the rest of your loved ones on my hit list will remain unharmed.”

He swallowed hard.

“If you find her dead, I start killing everyone.”

“You’ve made a big mistake—“

“Better hurry,” the voice taunted, ignoring Sherlock’s statement, “she might even be dead before time is up. Especially once I’m through with her.”

The line went dead.


	13. Chapter 13

Running as fast as their legs could take them, John and Sherlock raced to find a cab that could take them to Scotland Yard as soon as possible. Cab after cab drove by, full with occupants that needed to get somewhere, inconveniently, at the same time as the duo. John had called out in frustration, stamping his foot on the ground before trying to hail another vehicle. Sherlock, unlike his counterpart, was dead silent.

Her cries echoed through his mind like silverware dropping in an empty room. Sherlock’s mind kept changing track, jumping from when they first met to her cries and everything in between. Not only that, but her professed love to him put his thought processes off even more.

Did he love her? The more he batted the idea back and forth in his mind, the more uncertain he became. Even though their pasts may have aligned at one point, ten years can change a person. He knew he wasn’t the same person he was in college, and he wasn’t completely sure that she was either. From his experiences of seeing couples fall in and out of love (mainly John and his many companions he had while friends with Sherlock), Sherlock knew he’d have to handle this as gingerly as possible.

“Sherlock? Sherlock, come on!” he finally heard John call out. Turning towards the sound of his voice, Sherlock saw John with one foot stepping into a cab.

He had called out to Sherlock three or four times before catching his attention. The cabby was getting snippy with him, muttering something about losing other paying customers if his boyfriend didn’t hurry along.

Sherlock jogged over and followed John into the vehicle. The two paid the cabby with as much money as they had on them in order to ensure that they’d get to Lestrade’s as fast as possible. Soon they were zooming off into the night.

John fidgeted with his hands during the cab ride, knowing that any attempts to talk to Sherlock would be for not. One hour was not enough time to find Aryn without a viable lead to keep them going. Instead of being stuck at a dead end, they faced numerous paths and only one would lead to what they wanted. Glancing over at Sherlock, he could see the frustration in his eyes. Sherlock’s hands kept changing from being folded together to balling into fists to relaxing, then repeating the pattern over again.

Looking down at his watch, John nervously counted how many minutes had already gone by. They only had 52 minutes left.

“Can you go any faster?” John asked the cabby impatiently.

“No,” the cabby answered. “Don’t get your knickers in a bunch. No one’s gonna die if we get to Scotland Yard any later.”

+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+

They reached Lestrade’s office more impatient and frustrated after the cab driver took what seemed like an eternity to reach there. John had given him a few choice words before leaving the cab, kicking a dent in the door, then following Sherlock into the building. He was sure he’d be paying for that later.

45 minutes.

“Any news?” Lestrade asked, putting down the receiver on his phone. He had been busy coordinating various teams, ensuring that if any word about Aryn was received, people would be ready to rescue her. Lestrade seemed rejuvenated, his eyes bright and his expression eager.

John looked at Sherlock, expecting an answer. To his disappointment, Sherlock remained silent.

Sherlock walked over to a chair that was in front of Lestrade’s desk and sat down. His hands formed the familiar steeple in front of his mouth as he recounted the events of the day.

Looking from one to the other with disbelief in his eyes, Lestrade stood up and repeated himself. “Any news?” He leaned over his desk, his arms supporting his upper half as his fingers gripped the desk’s surface. His knuckles turned whiter the longer the room remained silent. Lestrade’s brow furrowed. His jaw clenched tightly as he looked down at his desk.

Suddenly, he pounded his fists on the desk, his gaze fiercely returning to Sherlock.

Sherlock hadn’t moved—hadn’t even flinched—while Lestrade went through his fit.

People outside the office had stopped what they were doing and watched the scene within unfold. For some, they wanted to see the DI rip the consulting detective to pieces. For others, they stood with their feet planted in fear having never seen this side of the DI while employed at Scotland Yard.

“Sherlock,” he began, fists still balled tightly. “Have you any idea what’s at stake here?”

+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+

She had begged for him to stop. She pleaded for her life. She gave up without any fight.

Somehow, Aryn thought that at the point she was going to die at the hands of a murderer, she would have died with more dignity. Laying on the floor in her own blood, she knew that it was a lost cause.

Pain shot through her body every time she took a breath. The killer had placed a stab wound similar to the other victims onto her chest. He offset it slightly, ensuring the wound wouldn’t kill her instantaneously.

She was to die slowly. Painfully.

And alone.

Thinking back to her family, she wondered what awaited her on the other side. She missed them greatly, especially her niece and nephew. She could remember taking them to the park on Sundays where they’d enjoy the sunshine as well as each other’s company. At night, she’d tuck them in for bed for her sister, singing them to sleep on nights where sleep didn’t come easy.

The accident was another thing that ventured into her mind. The one thing she could vividly remember was her niece. After clearing through the various police officers with her credentials and badge, Aryn had seen her niece on a gurney being treated by paramedics. They were trying to bring her back to life, being successful only a handful of times.

When she reached the gurney, she held her niece’s hand. It was as cold as ice. She had caught a glimpse of her niece’s beautiful blue eyes, the pair fading from a crisp, lively color to a dull one. Aryn had expected them to be laced with a million questions: what had happened to her family? Where was her mum? Was she going to die?

No. Instead, her eyes were calm and peaceful. It was as if she was ready to die.

Aryn wished she had that kind of courage locked away inside of her. She could feel tears streaming from her eyes, dripping past her ears as she looked towards the ceiling.

She wasn’t ready to die.

But she was going to.

+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+

He remained as still as before.

Lestrade stood up straight, rolling his eyes as he walked around his desk. He stood in front of Sherlock, leaning against both arms of the chair, mere inches separating their faces. “I don’t know who you think you are, but whatever happened between you and Aryn is not of any importance to me right now.”

John watched apprehensively, unsure of what the DI was planning to do. If he was Lestrade, he probably would have punched Sherlock in the face for being so unresponsive.

“I love her as if she’s one of my own.” His voice was a low murmur now, unheard by anyone aside from the three men in the room. “I told her that as long as she worked cases for me, I’d always be here to help. Now, I can’t.” He let his head hang low as he took several deep breaths. Looking back up, he continued, “You need to find her, Sherlock. Please…”

His expression hadn’t changed throughout the duration of Lestrade’s small speech. Their gaze was locked, silent communication flooding the air between them.

After a few moments of silence, Sherlock finally announced, “Give me some time to sort this out.”

“Time is something we don’t have, Sherlock!” John shouted.

Sherlock and Lestrade both looked at him as if they had forgotten he was there.

Looking at his watch, he continued, “We have 37 minutes left to find her. Figuring that it’ll take about ten minutes to get to wherever she is, I’d suggest you do your little detective stunt a little faster than normal.”

Glaring at John, Sherlock stood up after Lestrade walked back behind his desk and sat back in his chair.

Pacing, Sherlock began to think. After a minute or two, he began to think aloud. “We’ve checked all of my suggested locations, each significant to something in Aryn’s life that indicated a ‘beginning’. Having narrowed the location down to something that related to myself, we are left with few options.” He paused, staring out the window that stood before him. He tried to look out as far as he could, his eyes lost in the darkness. “On the phone, she—”

“You’ve talked to her?” Lestrade asked in shock, surprised that a detail like that went unshared. “When were you going to tell me that?”

Sherlock ignored Lestrade and continued where he had left off. “—she told me she was going to die there. Naturally, I told her we’d find her.”

“I hope you didn’t say that just to comfort her,” John remarked, still salty with the amount of time Sherlock was taking to come up with an answer.

Sherlock stopped pacing, turning slowly towards his companion with a deathly stare. Through clenched teeth, he replied in a dangerous tone, “I. Would. Never. Lie. To. Her.”

John shifted weight from foot to foot, trying to make it seem as if Sherlock’s actions hadn’t just chilled him to the core. “Continue,” he tried to say with confidence.

Going back to pacing, Sherlock said, “She kept talking about how I kept her safe. How when she jumped…” He trailed off. Turning on his heel, he looked at John with wide eyes, clapping his hands together. “Oh, that’s it. She’s brilliant.”

“Sorry?” John asked. “Jumped? When did she do that?”

“No time to explain.” Sherlock quickly grabbed a paper and pencil off of Lestrade’s desk and wrote down an address. “Send this out to all of your teams and get your car ready.”

+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+

With 24 minutes left, Sherlock, John, and Lestrade were all piled into a car, headed towards the far side of town. Police sirens wailed throughout the streets of London as multiple units, along with paramedics, played a game of Follow the Leader.

As the vehicles raced past, many people wondered what was going on. Some even went as far as to follow the parade to their destination.

Sherlock and John were passengers in Lestrade’s car, nervously holding onto handles above the doors as Lestrade raced through the streets like a mad man. Sharp corners caused John to hit the car window every once in a while, Sherlock bumping into him from the other side. Sherlock watched as the buildings passed by his window in a blur. It was only a matter of time before they’d find her.

He hoped.

During the ride, Sherlock felt a buzz in his coat pocket. His heart caught in his throat.

“Ryn?” he answered.

He saw Lestrade’s eyes flick to him through the rearview mirror and could feel John’s stare from beside him.

A lullaby.

He heard a woman’s voice singing a sweet lullaby over the phone. He recognized it as one that his mother had sung to him years ago when he was a child. Listening to the voice more carefully, he could hear how empty the room was that the woman was in. Her voice bounced off of the walls and rang throughout his head.

He could hear the woman pausing to sniffle every once in a while. She was crying as if she had just realized she lost something very precious to her. The longer he listened, the more his chest tightened. He knew this voice. It was Aryn.

No sooner had Aryn begun the lullaby, she stopped. Sherlock knew that wasn’t the end of the song. His mind jumped to every conclusion possible, his mind going into a frenzy.

“Listen,” he began. His voice was laced with a seriousness no one had ever heard. It was like a low growl that one hears while being hunted—dangerous and terrifying. “Whoever you are: know that if she dies, you will suffer in ways you cannot yet imagine.”

A taunting laugh responded on the other line. The killer was using a device that made his voice several octaves lower than what it really was. The deep laugh was haunting, as if he knew he had already won.

“She sang that 10 minutes ago, Mr. Holmes. She’s been pretty quiet ever since. Tell the rest of your friends to sleep with one eye open tonight. Tick…tock…tick…tock…”

The man hung up.

Sherlock’s hand fell away from his face slowly. “How much time do we have left?”

“15,” John replied.

“How much time until we reach her?”

“We’re here,” Lestrade answered quickly. He pulled in front of a pair of buildings, his front tires kissing the sidewalk.

The three poured out of the vehicle, only needing to wait a few moments for the rest of the vehicles to appear. Loud sirens continued to bring curious people from their nightly routines, curiosity enveloping their senses.

Looking up, Sherlock was flooded with nostalgia. He remembered telling Aryn to hurry up and make the jump. He remembered watching her foot slip, her face changing from relieved to frightened within seconds. He remembered reaching for her. He remembered never wanting to let her go.

While Lestrade had started to organize his teams, Sherlock took note that only one of the buildings had a window visible from the street that allowed them to peer into the basement. It was too small for any of them to fit through. Without any direction, he immediately went up the stairs to the building’s front door and kicked it in.

“Sherlock!” John called out, following his friend.

The two men were greeted by a deserted office building, the first portion they met being an old waiting room. Old couches sat on either side of the doorway and a receptionist’s desk sat in front of them. Boxes upon boxes filled with old files sat in random places, some nearly as tall as Sherlock. Past the receptionist’s desk, there was a row of doors. Some of the plaques were still stuck on them. One had the manager’s name on it, another had the boss’ name on it.

The one that caught Sherlock’s attention was the one that said “Basement”. It was slightly ajar, a small light creeping out from the opening.

He immediately went for it, knocking down boxes and tripping over other abandoned office supplies as he made his way towards the door. He pushed it open slowly, unsure of what was on the other side. The stairway that led down was very narrow. From Sherlock’s estimate, there was a four feet distance from wall to wall. As he and John began to descend down the stairs, their weight caused the wood to groan with old age. Their footsteps were loud and heavy.

As they reached the bottom, a lone candle stood on a table to give them light. To its left stood a door, the lock broken and pushed away on the floor by someone’s foot.

Sherlock placed his hand against the door to open it, but he hesitated. He didn’t know if he’d be ready for what awaited him on the other side. It was one thing running in on victims who were dying if he didn’t know them, but this was Aryn.

John placed his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. “I’m here, mate.”

Taking a deep breath, Sherlock pushed the door open and immediately inhaled sharply at the site of the scene.

There was cast off on the ceiling and walls from where the killer had used something to hit Aryn. A dark pool had formed around her curled up body, the amount of blood loss tremendous. Her coat was tossed onto a chair that sat in the corner of the room.

Sherlock and John both ran towards Aryn, Sherlock allowing John to handle her for the time being since the state of her injuries were unknown.

“Aryn? Aryn?” John called out to her as he checked for a pulse. It was there, but it was weak.

The wound that the killer had made was very precise, blood slowly trickling out of it like a hose that hadn’t been turned off completely. He pressed his hands against the wound, trying to stop it from bleeding out. “Sherlock, I need you to hold this while I check the rest of her injuries.”

Without hesitation, Sherlock replaced John’s hands with his own.

She had several broken bones, bruises on her face, and many lacerations on her arm where the killer had reopened her self-inflicted wounds. He was careful not to open them too deep, though. He made sure that the injury that would kill her would be the wound she suffered to the chest.

Slowly, Aryn’s eyes fluttered open. They were glassy and unfocused as she looked around at what was happening. A wave of relief flood over her when she saw the familiar faces. Maybe she wouldn’t die today.

“Aryn? Hey, long time no see,” John joked, shooting her a brief smile while continuing to check her over.

Her eyes rolled and changed her focus to Sherlock.

Their eyes locked, Sherlock not able to form any words to say to her. The only thing he conveyed in his eyes was the concern that clouded his usually crystal clear pools. He pursed his lips and continued to apply pressure on her wound.

“Aryn, I want you to do something for me: blink once for ‘yes’ and twice for ‘no’. Do you understand what I’m saying to you?”

She blinked once.

“Great, now we’re going to take you to the hospital. Were you attacked in any way other than the physical beating?”

She blinked twice.

“Can you move at all?”

She blinked twice.

By now, Lestrade was now in the room, having cleared the rest of the building. He stood at the doorway, mouth agape, as medics pushed past him and began to treat Aryn. John had started to give them a breakdown of her injuries while one man relieved Sherlock of his wound-pressing duties.

Aryn’s gaze never left Sherlock, even as he stood up and backed up a few steps.

“You’ll be okay,” he mouthed to her.

No sooner had the silent words left his lips, Aryn’s eyes rolled back and her head went limp.

“She’s going into shock,” John announced.

It was a frantic mess, the medics and John working like mad men to revive Aryn so that she could make it to the hospital.

Lestrade watched, fear in his eyes. His feet were planted to the floor, arms dangling weakly at his sides. He didn’t know what to say or do. Anderson walked in, eyes lingering on Aryn for a brief moment, before calling Lestrade out of his daze. “Greg, there’s press outside.”

Lestrade’s eyes snapped up to Anderson. Looking back at Aryn longingly, he followed Anderson outside to ward off the press.

Sherlock stood in the same manner as Lestrade had been earlier. Watching Aryn fade in and out of consciousness was a stressful situation. His palms were sweating and his breaths were quick. Looking down at his hands, the blood stains made his stomach churn. The gravity of the situation was finally hitting him.

“Sherlock? SHERLOCK,” John called out.

Sherlock looked at him slowly, his eyes vacant.

“I’m going to ride with Aryn to the hospital. Have Lestrade bring you up once everything here is settled.”

With that, Sherlock watched as a gurney was brought in. The men coordinated themselves to lift Aryn on John’s count, and soon she had been wheeled out to the ambulance that awaited them outside. He could see the various flashes come from outside, no doubt the press was getting any shot they could of the situation. It had been a long, strenuous day for everyone.

Lestrade walked back in with a wet towel and handed it to Sherlock. “It’ll have to do until we can get you to a proper sink.”

Sherlock took the towel with some gratitude and began to wipe his palms.

A silence settled on the two men as they both stared at the spot Aryn had been just moments before. It was now a waiting game to see if she would survive. The killer’s condition still stood: if she died, everyone else did, too.

“You’ll need to face the press on the way out,” Lestrade informed. “I can guide you to the car, but it’s a bloody nightmare out there.”

Sherlock nodded as he followed Lestrade out of the room and back up the stairs. Their footsteps were heavy, neither one really looking forward to what was to come in the next few hours.

When they reached the front door, Sherlock turned up his collar and took a deep breath.

The amount of people outside was staggering. The press had camera’s rolling and flashing as Lestrade and Sherlock walked out towards Lestrade’s car.

“Mr. Holmes! Mr. Holmes!” several reporter called out.

“What happened to Detective Inspector Clarke?”

“What is your relationship to the DI?”

“Is Miss Clarke dead?”

The flashes were blinding, Sherlock almost bumping into several people because of the close proximity. Looking around, he saw that the crowd was immense. Everyone wanted to get a closer look at the excitement that had taken over London for the day.

As he got closer to the car, a face in the crowd caught his attention. The man was smiling at Sherlock, seeming to chuckle every so often. Sherlock knew that this man was the killer. He was responsible for everything that had happened to Aryn.

Another bright flash appeared in Sherlock’s face, causing his vision to temporarily falter.

After recovering from the blinding light, Sherlock desperately looked around at the crowd again, unable to find the man with the twisted smile.

Jim Moriarty had slipped through his fingers once again.


	14. Chapter 14

“She’s asleep for right now. Best we all just wait until she wakes.”

John had just briefed Lestrade and Sherlock on Aryn’s various injuries. Her most problematic ones were the knife wound to the chest and a few broken ribs. Luckily, nothing else was broken or punctured. Having taken Aryn to the hospital and stayed with the doctors while she was worked on, John mentioned many times to the two men that Aryn was lucky to be alive.

People were rushing from place to place around them. Nurses were guiding people to their rooms or aiding doctors in emergency cases, patients were filling the waiting room, and families were waiting to hear the news about their loved ones. It was an unnerving sight to see so many people who needed help. John couldn’t look around the room without reliving the events that had happened in the past few hours. He had to debrief the doctors himself because the medics who had brought them were absolute rubbish.

When they had managed to bring Aryn back to them, all he could hear was her crying. She was in so much pain. The most she could do was keep her eyes closed and cry. John had held her hand for whatever time he could and she seemed to appreciate it, between the tears and the quick grunts of pain.

At least the next time he would be in that waiting room, it would be awaiting the arrival of his child.

As the three men sat, thinking back to everything that had happened, a man walked towards them. He twirled his umbrella in a matter-of-factly way, looking around the room in slight disgust. “I had no idea this place would be crawling with so many people.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, slowly bringing them up to meet his brother’s gaze. “What are you doing here, Mycroft?”

Sitting down in a chair opposite Sherlock, Mycroft replied, “I heard your friend was in a spot of trouble. Came to see if any of you could use my assistance.”

“A bit late for that, don’t you think?” John sneered.

Mycroft shot him a look that made John feel as if Mycroft felt John was unworthy to speak. “I understand that her survival does, in fact, involve my wellbeing. For the time being, her problems are my problems as well.”

“You’re not the only one who’s tied to her survival,” Lestrade commented, “but I’m not worried about my life, I’m worried about hers.”

Mycroft leaned back, studying his brother’s expression. It was unusually blank, lost in deep thought. “Dear brother, what have you gotten yourself into?”

Sherlock’s eyes snapped to attention.

“You know who the killer is, don’t you?”

“And you never bothered sharing it with me?” Lestrade asked in surprise, turning to face his body towards Sherlock.

Sherlock sighed, giving his brother a dirty look. “I saw who it was, but thanks to those stupid camera men, he was gone before I could reach him.”

“How do you know who it was?” John asked, thinking back to the crowd of people that had surrounded the scene as he was leaving. There was no one that had stuck out when he scanned the crowd. How would Sherlock have picked out one particular person? Unless…

“Ahh, I see,” Mycroft replied, interlacing his fingers as his hands rested in his lap. “Moriarty again?”

Lestrade looked up at Mycroft as if he had seen a ghost. John hung his head down as he rested his elbows on his knees, confirming his hunch he had just had. Sherlock brought his gaze to the floor in front of him, his eyes unwavering.

“We’ll have to wait for him to surface again if we want any chance of catching him, unfortunately,” Mycroft stated.

Sherlock, as much as he didn’t want to, agreed with his brother. Moriarty was harder to catch than a puff of smoke. He could take on any identity he wanted and break in to any place he desired. He had access to people, places, and information that would envy even Mycroft. After returning from the “dead”, Sherlock had a feeling that the attacks towards him would get even more personal than before.

And he had been right.

“Is this just a game to him?” Lestrade asked to no one in particular.

Sherlock nodded. After a long pause, he answered, “If she survives, I can assure you that this won’t be the last time he tries to pull a stunt like this. It will get more elaborate, more cunning, and more people will die.”

Lestrade didn’t need to be told that twice. After going through the “Great Game”, John’s name for one of the runarounds with Moriarty that they had, Lestrade wasn’t surprised. It would take a mad man like Moriarty to do something like strap bombs to innocent people to test Sherlock’s mind. Seeing it go from that to something of this level was unsettling.

“I’m going to make sure there’s a patrol car at every residence and work place of the hit list targets,” he announced, standing up and pulling out his cell phone. “We can’t take any risks if he decides to change the rules.”

John nodded while the two Holmes brothers sat in silence.

As Lestrade walked away to make the various phone calls, John walked to the counter to talk to one of the nurses. He arrived back with a clipboard, placing it in front of Sherlock.

“I’ve filled out as much information on Aryn as I can. Maybe you’ll be able to fill out more.”

Sherlock gazed down at the papers, then looked up at John with a wary face. Reaching for the board, he flipped through the various forms, clicking the pen that came with it numerous times out of anxiousness.

Scribbling down what he could remember about her, Sherlock finally went up to the desk and returned the forms as needed. He didn’t fill out much more, but what he did fill out satisfied what she would need.

Now they just needed to wait.

+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+

It had been a week until Aryn was deemed stable and was allowed visitors to come and see her in her room. She could move around a little more than before, but her ribs wouldn’t allow for any normal movement. Sitting up was a chore without the bed aiding her, walking being a whole task in itself with the amount of bruises she had.

She was hoping to have seen John, to ask him the true extent of what had happened, but he was at home tending to Mary. It was understandable. She was due any day now. If Aryn was lucky, she’d be in hospital with Mary at the same time. At least she’d be the first one there for the delivery.

Restricted to her room, she had to find some way to cheer herself up. She was going to be there for a few more weeks because the doctors needed to monitor her chest wound. She didn’t mind much except for the fact that the food tasted terrible. It beat being alone once more in her flat.

Aryn wasn’t sure how she’d adjust back to regular life after she left London. She didn’t want to be alone anywhere for a while considering the manner in which she had been kidnapped. She remembered that after she had awoken from her nap that was supposed to help her headache, she couldn’t move most of her body. She felt hands pick her up and tie her limbs to one another, bringing her out of her flat and into a vehicle. From there she had blacked out until she reached that horrible basement.

The sound of the TV filled her room as she sat by herself. As she understood it, only family was allowed to visit her for the time being. When the doctor had told her that, she was disappointed. She had no family left to come and take care of her. It made it rather pointless to have a policy like that in her opinion, especially in her case. Without visitors, Aryn filled her time watching day time telly—horrible, yet addicting.

A nurse walked in after a while and began to check Aryn’s vitals as well as her fluids. “How’re we feeling today?”

“Better than yesterday.” That was always her answer. It wasn’t necessarily a lie. She never wanted to get into details about how her bruises felt or how her chest ached from time to time because of the healing process. The less she had to talk about her wounds, the better. That way, she wouldn’t have to relive the methods in which she got them.

The nurse walked around the bed and pulled Aryn’s gown down enough to see the bandage that covered her chest wound. She redressed it, commenting on how it was healing nicely and that in a week or so, she would be able to get the stitches out.

Yipee.

“Oh, and by the way—your father is here to see you.”

Aryn’s eyes shot to the nurse who was now at the foot of her bed looking over a clipboard with Aryn’s vitals on it. “M-m-my father?”

The nurse looked up at her with a smile. “Yes, your father. He’s been here almost every day since you’ve arrived. He’s a trooper.” With that, the nurse returned the clipboard to a hook on the wall and left the room.

Aryn’s heart was racing, the increase reflected on the machine next to her. The rhythmic beating had sped up tenfold as adrenaline began to course through her body. Her father had finally come to visit her? Why now? She had never had any affiliations with him in the past. She didn’t even know what he’d look like.

Panicking, she began to spread the blankets out on her bed so that there were no creases. She pressed down on her messy hair, running her fingers through it to get out any knots.

Suddenly, she stopped. It was no use trying to look good. She was in a gown, in a hospital. She had every right to look like a wreck. Maybe it would guilt trip him more when he finally saw her.

As she wrestled with her mind about whether or not to keep combing through her hair, she heard the door squeak open. Heavy footsteps were heard, shuffling to get into the room, then close the door behind whoever had come in.

Aryn tried to lean back and look as casual as she could, fidgeting with her hands on her lap. She looked down at them, trying to keep her focus.

The footsteps were slow, the person trying not to be too loud when they came in.

She inhaled sharply when the person finally came into her line of sight.

“Greg,” she exhaled, her body relaxing as she smiled at Lestrade. He was holding a bouquet of lilies and smiling a goofy smile, as if he was really a father visiting his daughter in a hospital.

He set down the flowers at a table that sat against the wall opposite from Aryn’s bed, then proceeded to sit in a chair that was on Aryn’s right. “Good to see you.”

She laughed. “So…my father?”

“I don’t know how it happened,” he commented. “I had come down to see if you were taking visitors, gave them my name, then they told me I could see my daughter today if I wanted to.”

Aryn didn’t want to argue the error. She much preferred to see Lestrade than to see her biological father anyway. She leaned back in a more relaxed manner, exhaling deeply. “It’s good to see a familiar face.”

“I’m sure. I bet the food’s terrible though.”

She nodded, more smiles escaping her lips.

As they caught up briefly, the tone of the conversation began to change.

“Greg,” she started, looking down at her hands. “How bad was it? When you all finally found me?”

Lestrade shifted uncomfortably in his chair as he too fixed his gaze on Aryn’s hands. “Well…” He paused, choosing his words carefully. “It wasn’t a very pretty sight. John was adamant after you came to the hospital that you were lucky to be alive.”

She nodded, starting to feel the ghostly sting of the knife that had gone into her chest.

“We do know who did this to you, though.”

Her face shot up as she looked at Lestrade’s weary face.

Slowly, he looked up at her. His eyes looked guilty.

“What’s wrong?”

He sighed as he leaned back in his chair. “He was there, at the scene. We couldn’t catch him.”

“Who?”

“Jim Moriarty.”

Her expression was muddled, her gaze looking straight through Lestrade as she drank Lestrade’s words. She remembered seeing Moriarty’s wanted flier posted in several places in her office as well as receiving messages from Lestrade himself about the kind of mischief that this man had been up to in London. If there was anyone that could have given Sherlock a run for his money, it was Moriarty.

After a few minutes of silence, Lestrade stood up. “It’s nearly dinner. Want me to sneak you in some food?”

Snapping out of the daydream she was in, Aryn nodded and gave a brief smile.

Soon, she was alone once again.

+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+

“Sherlock, dear, you haven’t eaten a bite in days,” Mrs. Hudson harped, placing a plate of food in front of Sherlock as he laid on his couch. She stood back, waiting for him to make some kind of movement towards the food. Not a muscle moved aside from the occasional blink of his eyes.

Flustered, Mrs. Hudson pulled up a chair and sat across from the detective like a worried mother.

A few days after Aryn had been found, Sherlock had lost his appetite and had decided to coop himself up in his flat until either Lestrade found another case for him or Mary had her baby. He could have gone to the hospital to visit Aryn, but he didn’t know how he’d react after having to help John stop her from bleeding out and dying.

It was a strange feeling. He was being pulled in two opposite directions of wanting to see Aryn and wanting to stay as far away from her as humanly possible.

“Sherlock,” Mrs. Hudson said once more.

The detective’s eyes met hers, unusually empty.

Speaking with hesitation, she said, “I know it’s not my place, but you really should go and see her.”

“See who, Mrs. Hudson?”

“That girl you fancy…Aryn was it?”

Sherlock sat up, folding his arms over his chest. “Who ever said ‘fancy’? I don’t fancy her.”

Mrs. Hudson’s look became expectant, seeing through Sherlock’s defense.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and looked down at the food Mrs. Hudson had set in front of him. His stomach began to growl with hunger.

“John says she’s doing much better. Greg’s been by to see her as well.”

“John? When did you talk to John?”

“He was by not two days ago. You just sat there on the couch without saying much. He even tried talking to you, but you ignored him.”

Sherlock’s face scrunched up in confusion as he reached down for the plate, using the fork that was on it to poke at the meat and potatoes.

“Sherlock,” Mrs. Hudson said once more, leaning down to try and catch Sherlock’s eyes from the angle that the plate was at.

He met her gaze, the concern in Mrs. Hudson’s eyes apparent.

Taking a deep breath, she began, “It isn’t your fault.”

His chest tightened.

“It’s not your fault that she ended up in that situation. It could have been any of us, to be perfectly honest.”

He slowly started to lower the plate, allowing it to sit in his lap.

“It will be your fault, though, if she leaves here still broken hearted. That’s something you need to fix.”

Standing up, Mrs. Hudson walked out of Sherlock’s sight. He could hear her footsteps on the stairs as she descended them and walked back to her own flat.

He was alone once again.


	15. Chapter 15

“And here’s your bag. I packed a few clothes in there for you as well as your perfume and whatever else you’ll be needing,” Greg explained, giving a duffel bag to Aryn as she sat on her hospital bed.

She was so relieved when the nurse had informed her the day prior that she could go home. No more day time telly, no more needles and check-ups, and no more hospital food. It also gave her a chance to get away from her thoughts. Even if John and Greg were able to visit every day, she’d still have times where all she could do was sit and think about where her life was going.

It would be hard to adjust back to being in Manchester after everything she had just been through. It would be even harder leaving Greg behind knowing how much she missed having her around. The one person she truly felt bad about leaving, though, was Sherlock.

Then again, why should she? Not once did he come by to visit her. Not once did he phone to see if she was alright. He didn’t even send a card of some type to wish her a fast recovery.

On second thought, though, those are not things that Sherlock would do for anyone—not even John.

As she changed her clothes and began to fix her appearance so she’d look like her usual self, she looked at her face in the mirror. Every time she had gone into that bathroom, she looked at her reflection. This time, it seemed like she was looking at herself with fresh eyes. The soft face of the detective she once was had disappeared, replaced by experience, hardship, and broken memories. It would be a tough blow to recover from. Once she did, she feared she would never be the same person.

She walked out of the bathroom, her hair pulled up into a bun. “Much better.”

Greg smiled at her as he walked towards the door. “Shall we?”

Aryn smiled as she walked towards the door. Greg opened it and the two walked down the various hallways and out of the building in silence.

Outside, the hustle and bustle of the London streets were as they had always been. People walked past without paying the pair a second glace. Everyone was off doing some kind of task and attending to their own agendas, unknowing of what had happened during the last few months. Only a few would know had they been reading the newspaper or the tabloids (Aryn had walked past a newsstand where one of the magazine headlines read “Mrs. Sherlock Holmes: Dead or Alive?” She had shaken her head at it and walked away angrily).

The two took a cab to Aryn’s apartment where a squad car was sitting outside.

“This is for your protection,” he explained as the two walked along the front of the apartment building beside the car. “All of the targets have one or two of them posted outside. Just a precautionary measure.”

“Well, you won’t have to worry about me for long, Greg.”

He stopped briefly as they stood outside the door to the apartment’s lobby. “And why’s that?”

“I’ll be returning to Manchester tomorrow once I get my train tickets situated. The secretary at the other office is handling it for me.”

“You don’t want to stay here?” Greg asked, slight sadness outlining his tone, as the two walked inside and towards the elevator.

Aryn shook her head slightly as she watched the numbers above the elevator’s entrance change in accordance to the floor it was on.

8…7…6…

“But I thought that maybe…well…you and Sh—“

“There’s nothing to be said about Sherlock and I,” Aryn quickly cut off, sending Lestrade a glare that bore a million daggers into his being.

Silence settled once more on the two. The only thing that cut through it was the ringing noise of the elevator signaling that it had reached its destination floor. The doors pulled apart, allowing for the duo to walk inside. Aryn pressed the button labeled “5” and watched the doors close once again.

1…2…3…

“You need to face him at some point, Aryn,” Lestrade chided. “At least before you leave for Manchester.”

“He never bothered to even see if I was okay after the incident,” Aryn snapped, keeping her body faced towards the elevator’s entrance.

“Well, you know damned well that that’s not how Sherlock shows he cares.” Lestrade’s tone was getting more serious—more father-like—with every word he spat out. “You need to give him a chance to talk to you.”

“There’s no need.” Aryn walked out of the elevator as soon as she could, walking briskly down the hall towards her room as she reached into her pocket for her keys.

“Aryn. ARYN!” Lestrade called from down the hall several feet away.

Outside of her door, Aryn was fumbling with her keys. She turned her head sharply towards Lestrade when he called her name, eyes full of frustration.

Not saying a word until he reached her, Lestrade grabbed Aryn’s keys, found the proper key for her apartment, then opened the door for her. “Please…for me.”

Aryn sighed as she pushed the door open. Everything was just as she had left it, aside from the papers that were now sitting unorganized on the floor after Lestrade had knocked them over. She walked inside and tossed her duffel bag on the couch. Her heart was racing as she walked deeper into her flat knowing that this was the place she had been taken from after being drugged. It felt as if one of her safe places had been violated—tainted with an evil that her memory could never wash away.

“Locks have been changed, windows have been secured with alarms. You’ll be fine if you stay here.”

“I was supposed to be fine before all that had been done to this place,” she mumbled under her breath.

She walked towards her bedroom and pushed the door open. She looked around the room, checking to see if anything had changed. Her eyes landed on an unfamiliar object.

On her bed sat a black box, maybe a foot and a half long on each side and a foot tall. There was a folded note taped to the top of it with a single word on the outside: “Aryn”.

Lestrade placed his hand on her shoulder, pulling her backwards out of the room. “That wasn’t here when I stopped by a few hours ago.” He had his gun pulled out of its holster, pointing at the mystery box before them.

Stepping cautiously into the room, Lestrade inspected the box at all angles. He noted that the paper was simply folded in half and the message had been written in black pen. It said:

_Hyde Park. 8pm. Wear this._

There was no signature nor any other marking on the note aside from Aryn’s name. Lestrade lifted the lid slowly on the box and stared at the contents. A black dress was wrapped in tissue paper on the inside. A scarf was folded next to it and beneath it was a grey pea coat similar to the one that Aryn had to sacrifice to the evidence lockers at Scotland Yard. She had never wanted it back because of the blood stains and traumatizing memories that came with them.

Aryn walked in and stood next to Lestrade, grabbing the note and reading it.

“I don’t know what’s going on, but I’m gonna call Donovan and—“

“It’s fine, Greg,” Aryn answered in a calm manner, still staring at the note in her hands.

“But Aryn, whoever this is could be—“

“Greg,” she responded with a firmer tone. She gave a look of reassurance as she glanced down at the box he had open in front of him. “It’s fine. I know who this is from. No threat. I promise.”

+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+

7 o’clock rolled around faster than Aryn had anticipated. She had sent Greg away after vaguely answering all of the questions he had asked regarding the box and the mystery note. Of course, she didn’t blame him for being overly cautious. She would have done the same thing.

Standing at the edge of her bed, she stared at the clothes that were in the box, now spread out on her comforter. In her head there was a never ending argument as to whether or not she should wear the garments, let alone show up at the park at all. Time was running out and she needed to make a decision.

A small knock came at her door, snapping Aryn’s attention towards the sound.

Looking down at the clothes once more with a sigh, she left the room and walked to her front door, peering through the peephole. She smirked slightly when she saw who it was and proceeded to open the door.

“Mr. Watson,” she greeted with a small smile. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“A small gift from Mary and I to you,” John replied, handing her a brown paper bag.

Aryn opened it and smelled a variety of delicious aromas. There was stew and freshly made bread inside as well as garlic mash. Her stomach rumbled at the smell.

Looking back up at John happily, she said, “Thank you. This means a great deal. I can’t thank you enough actually for everything you all have been doing to help me through this.”

“Well, we all have our ways of taking care of you,” John answered, his tone seeming to hint towards something more than the dinner he had handed off to Aryn. “Are you busy?”

She turned her head towards her bedroom, thinking about the note. “Actually, I might be. I’ll take a raincheck for later on though.”

“Just give me a ring. Speaking of which, Greg told me to give you…” John fished around in his pocket before finding a cell phone. He handed it to Aryn. “...this.”

She smiled gratefully. “Thank you, John.”

He nodded before turning and walking away from the woman.

She stared at the now empty doorway for a moment, then closed it and walked towards the dining room table. Setting down her dinner and her phone, she looked at the clock once more.

7:15.

+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+

Sherlock walked back and forth at least a million times trying to set up the blanket correctly. A familiar scene was set, his violin case sitting on one side, the ring box on another portion, and a tape recorder sitting beside the two.

Admittedly, he was nervous—even more so than last time. He had no idea what he was going to say, nor how he would react when he saw her walk to him in that dress. Mrs. Hudson had been nice enough to come and help him pick it out after he had told her what he had planned to do.

Looking down at his watch, it was already 8:15. He glanced around trying to find some woman that looked out of place in her surroundings, but there was no one to be seen. He began to worry as clouds formed overhead, threatening to foil his plans.

Another 15 minutes went by and Sherlock looked down at his set up a final time. Reaching down for the ring box, he opened it and gazed at the band that sat within.

She had worn that ring for over 10 years. It was still a dumbfounding fact for him to swallow. She had felt so attached to him that she held on to their friendship for that long, unknowing of what would ever happen to them. Would she have simply remained alone for the rest of her life? Would she have eventually come looking for him? Would he have ever looked for her?

He sat down, his back facing the rest of the park, and stared out at the familiar body of water that always greeted him. This park knew many memories. Maybe too many memories for Sherlock’s taste.

He felt someone watching him. Turning to his right, he could see Aryn standing and looking at the forlorn Sherlock.

There was an air of confusion about him, though. Her hair was down and she was wearing a t-shirt, jacket, jeans, and Converse, holding the black box that he had left in her bedroom.

He stood up and walked over to her, sticking the box into his pocket unnoticed. “Aryn? Why aren’t you—“

“I came to return this to you, Sherlock,” Aryn interrupted, holding the box out to him.

Uncertain of what had brought on her change in attitude, Sherlock grabbed the box and set it down next to him. “What’s wrong?” He was purely in a state of misunderstanding. He had the set up correct: the blanket, the violin, the mystery box. Why wasn’t this all working like it had before?

“I also came to tell you ‘good-bye’,” Aryn continued, attempting to make her face as stone cold as she could.

Sherlock’s face twisted into an expression of disbelief. “Good-bye?”

“I’m leaving for Manchester tomorrow.”

“Why?”

Aryn only stared at the detective for a brief moment, then turned around to walk away.

“Aryn?” Sherlock called.

She didn’t stop.

“ **Aryn**.”

The small footsteps stopped, Aryn still facing away from Sherlock.

At this point, he was at a loss for words. He turned back towards his picnic blanket, recalculating any way, shape, or form he could manage to save his plans and his evening.

“Sherlock,” Aryn finally began, her voice cracking slightly. “I can’t stay here.”

He stood in silence, watching the frail girl that stood before him try to maintain her composure.

“Every corner of this city that I go to makes me remember things I had buried deep in my mind. I moved to Manchester to forget it all. I wanted no part in what my past had given me.”

He felt the box in his pocket shift as he walked towards her.

“Then why keep the ring?”

She sniffled, tears running down her face.

“Aryn…” Sherlock stood behind her, unsure of what to do with himself. He looked around and saw that the park was mostly empty, people taking cover due to the clouds he had spotted earlier.

“It was a relic of a past that would haunt me no matter how hard I tried to forget it,” Aryn said, her voice faltering. “Sherlock,” she started, turning towards the detective, “I almost died. I was beaten until I had nearly no life left in me. I suffered through immense physical and emotional pain. The part that scared me the most, though, was the fact that through all of it, you were the only person I could think of.”

Sherlock stepped back, slightly in awe of Aryn’s statement.

“I told you that I loved you. I allowed myself to be the most vulnerable I had ever been in my entire life. After ten years, I finally told you what I had wanted to tell you.” She paused, still staring at Sherlock’s bright blue eyes, his gaze searching for answers within hers. “And you never returned the sentiment. No visit, no phone call, nothing.”

“You of all people should know that I’m—“

“—not that kind of person,” Aryn finished, rolling her eyes and walking past Sherlock. She stopped at the edge of the blanket and looked down at what was on it. “I had just thought that maybe you would have changed that part of you for me. Even for just a second…”

Rain began to fall in heavy droplets around the two, neither one moving because of the change in weather.

He walked over to her, stopping just prior to his chest touching her back.

She could feel his warmth radiating towards her, inviting her in for some kind of contact or embrace.

“Sherlock, I can’t go through the rest of my life like this.”

Finally frustrated at his lack of handle on the situation, Sherlock forcibly turned Aryn to him, his grip tight on her shoulders. “Aryn, I can never love you.”

The words that fell out of his mouth seemed to crush her into a million tiny pieces. He watched her heart break in her eyes, the tears still distinguishable from the rain that landed on her face. Her mouth had opened in slight surprise, not anticipating what Sherlock had told her.

He looked down at their feet for a moment before returning his gaze to hers. “I will put you in too much danger if I were to ever care for you more than what I already have.” He thought back to when he and John first became friends, Moriarty finding their relationship to be easily meddled into. Putting John in danger was a tipping point for Sherlock. It was the very reason why he had never got close to anyone.

Aryn stared at him, waiting for more answers to pour out.

“I left you all those years ago for that very reason.” His hands fell to his sides and went into his pockets as he looked longingly at Aryn. The rain that surrounded them was heavy and unyielding. “It’s not a risk that I’m willing to take.” His mouth said what he knew was the truth, but it wasn’t the entire truth. Deep down, he knew she could handle the risk. She had already gone through an insurmountable amount of risk as it was. Looking down at her now, he felt the familiar tightening of his chest.

She didn’t know who to be more upset with: Sherlock or herself. They had both been selfish, but Sherlock had been so in a way that made Aryn feel very ashamed of herself.

At that moment, he didn’t know what took over him. It could have been the rain, the heat of the moment, or all of the rubbish movies he had watched on daytime telly, but Sherlock reached out for Aryn and did the only thing that came to mind: he kissed her.

At first, her eyes widened in surprise. She pushed against him slightly, but soon melted away in his embrace. One hand was around her waist and the other held her cheek, his fingers getting lost in the strands of her damp hair. One of her arms was tucked between herself and Sherlock, her other hand resting on his shoulder.

In that moment, she felt as if her problems had never existed. She felt like everything that she had gone through with Sherlock had all added up to that very moment. She felt a wave of relief wash over her like a wave crashing onto sand. She felt whole.

Breaking the kiss, Sherlock and Aryn’s foreheads remained together, both of them catching their breaths as the rain beat down from them overhead. Their eyes were closed as they relished in the moment.

Deep down, Sherlock wished it could remain that way: Aryn safe with him always with nothing threatening to harm the people he cared about. He knew she was it. She was the only person he’d ever feel this way for.

Aryn opened her eyes first, gazing at Sherlock’s features. He was calmer than she had ever seen him—at peace with some of his demons for the first time in quite a while. She suddenly grew very scared, remembering what he had told her earlier: he could never love her. Yet, what had happened in the last thirty seconds had contradicted that exact statement. With that, she knew that the kiss was meant to convey more than what he could never openly admit.

His eyes opened too, their gaze signaling that he had come to the same realization that Aryn had. He walked away from her, kneeling down to grab his violin case and the tape recorder, then returned to stand toe to toe with Aryn once more.

They exchanged no words, drinking in one another’s presence for the last time.

After a few moments, they both turned from each other and walked away. The only remnant of their exchange was the blanket left on the ground.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there we have it! I hope you enjoyed this story! A sequel has been in the works for a long time but...it doesn't have the same zing that this one has. Let me know if you'd like to help me with it! :)
> 
> With Love,  
> sparrowlina


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